


Darkness

by SippingPlotting



Series: Sequels [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: World War II, deaths occur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 120
Words: 168,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SippingPlotting/pseuds/SippingPlotting
Summary: A sequel to the sequel of the sequel?World War II (Next Gen) focus, which is not for everyone(Frankly, not for me, except I'm worried about poor Georgie, though he won't go in for a while.)





	1. Chapter 1

-  
-  
-  
It was brewing up a storm that night, Andrew Parker noted as he finished hammering another piece onto the barn.  
There were dark clouds in the sky and the hair on his arms stirred with the air's gathering electricity.  
“We'll need to batten down for the day, right?” Danny yelled up to him.  
Daniel Barrow, actually more in charge of Yew Tree than he himself, was still a good bit younger and still felt himself more of a city boy than Andy. Though city boys they both were, truly.

 

“I'll go a bit more. You clear up down there,” Andy yelled back, pounding away as quickly as he could.  
They'd had a full schedule up at the big house, guests even, but Mr. Barrow had still let him off on his regular half day, knowing that they had repairs underway that needed a rush.  
Most of the men in the village had such projects. 

 

For as the 1930's were ending it was harder to ignore clouds of a different sort gathering.  
As Englishmen, of course, they noticed the worst case while making a case for the best.  
Still, though, men all over town were pounding and hammering, feeling in the back of their minds the weight of what might happen should war be declared. 

 

“Put this off as long as we could, ey?” Danny said, hitching himself into position and helping hold Andy's last board.  
  
“I want everything done. You know. In case of the rationing, just as much in case of the call ups,” Andy replied. “I might be deferred as a warden, and you might as an 'only son' and running the farm to boot. But you never know.”

 

“But do you want a deferrment, really? Rather than go to fight? Some of the boys at the pub say they're in for a good row if the Germans start it. Don't want it, of course, but they'll put the jerries in their place right and proper this time.”  
Daniel wiped away the sweat from his brow, sweeping back a lank piece of black hair.  
His grey eyes studied Andy, but in a friendly way.

“Better not let your uncle hear you say that. Barrow gave me a lecture about even signing up for warden. He'll skin you for sure if you ever go willingly into a battle.”

 

Danny's eyes crinkled slightly as he laughed.  
His uncle, Thomas Barrow, had seen the worst of the action in the Great War and definitely had come out not wanting to see anyone fight again. 

Ironic, really, since he was a fighter by nature, cynical, suspicious even, though showing absolute loyalty to those he finally decided to love.  
“Good thing for you Lord Grantham made him join the ARP, too, then,” Danny grinned and clambered down to stand with Andy.  
They inspected the job as the first of the raindrops hit.

 

“And I've another blasted meeting tonight, so he might have been right, there,” Andy grumbled good naturedly. “Daisy's fit to kill me, but there's nothing for it, even on half day.”  
“Best scrub up,” the younger man joked, reaching out to jab a finger clumsily across Andy's face. “Quite the coal miner, you,” he said holding it up.

And as the rain began to pelt down, they jogged quickly in, satisfied they'd done the best they could for the time.

\---

ARP meetings were held almost nightly by 1939.  
They'd actually mandated the group two years before, and formed a committee all the way back in '35.  
That was when Lord Grantham, encouraged by Tom Branson of all people, had taken charge of rounding up appropriate volunteers.  
And his choices were sometimes mysterious—Moseley, for instance.

 

The first meeting of the entire group, at which an ex-army instructor had tacked up a colored chart on the effect of mustard gas on limbs, had almost made Joseph Moseley fail before a word was spoken. 

Barrow, sitting next to him and coerced into first aid duty, had given him an evil chuckle.  
“Steady on, Mr. Moseley, this is just the start.”  
And it was. They had the same instructor for twelve weeks, two hours each session.

 

The school room where they gathered was fitted out for the upper levels, but still it was jarring to see evidence of youth and brightness overlaid by posters and diagrams of distruction and death.

“'ere, you might wanna read up on things,” the old soldier had grinned at them, throwing down a draft manual of sorts, as cheerfully as a teacher passing out texts.  
Seeing the horrors of the descriptions gave Moseley a bit of an insight into the many terrifying things Mr. Barrow kept locked in his mind. And for once he didn't hold the man at arm's length. 

 

“You know all this, then,” Moseley asked, looking at Barrow. 

“I've seen a lot, but I'll still have to come.”  
Barrow was more annoyed by the waste of time meeting than the pictures on the chart or the instructor's cheery demeanor.  
“Horrible,” Joseph mumbled, never sure what to say. 

“War,” Barrow said shortly, raising an eyebrow and giving him a look that clearly labeled him lunatic. 

 

“Didn't go the last time,” Moseley added. “Me lungs.”  
“Hmmm,” the other man replied, as though he might know otherwise.  
Surely Mr. Barrow wouldn't have known otherwise all these years and let it go?  
Moseley tried to calm his heartbeat, failing slightly. 

 

“Let's get started, shall we?” the major said from the front of the room. “There are all sorts of gases, so we'll have to go over them one by one just in case. “  
“Lovely,” smirked Thomas, wishing he could be anywhere else but. 

Of course, the butler couldn't.  
Not when Lord Grantham specifically told him he was expected to use his 'special expertise' from the Great War,  
The earl had saved him more than once.  
And while it was unlikely, Thomas wasn't going to risk his lordship's anger in case at some point perhaps he'd save him (or Danny?) again.

\---

And after months of this, tonight's meeting was finally on gas masks.  
They needed to learn how to fit them, for those in command had seen that gas in the last war, combined with aeroplanes, might well be the combination Germany would use to wipe the slate clean. 

England wasn't just another country to the Nazis. They felt like a special target, since they'd taken a leading role in diplomacy. (Diplomacy now failed, it had to be said.)

 

Andy Parker slid into his seat just as they were to start.  
He smiled and nodded affably to the room, but planted himself firmly next to Mr. Barrow, who sat scowling apart from the rest.  
“Right, then, this is where they tell us how to be safe?” Andy muttered it under his breath, knowing Thomas was thinking of how gas masks had failed so many in the battle times. 

 

“If they're finally sending these out, it means they've given up on any chance of peace. Not officially, of course, but you don't put together a gas mask for everyone in the country just on a whim.”  
Barrow turned the ugly thing over in his hands.  
“I'd better be practicing up my driving, after all.”

 

The last was said almost sadly, and it worried Andy more than all of the official posturing.  
If Mr. Barrow was giving in to the thing, believing it was a necessity, then they were coming to war for sure.

Andy sat there, worrying about farm chores and gas masks, black out shutters and call ups.  
Unlike Danny, he didn't think it sounded like anything he'd want a part of, but he'd do his best at whatever duty called.


	2. Chapter 2

-  
-  
-  
It was Sunday and full of sunshine when the blow hit.  
Mrs. Patmore was huddled around the wireless at the Carson cottage, having been dropped off by Daisy on her way to church.  
Beryl Patmore felt she needed her friend more than the vicar right that moment, heretical though the thought might be. 

(Many a Sunday she'd spent locked in a kitchen during her lifetime, anyway. Surely a gentle hour with a friend was more acceptable to the Higher Powers than that.)

 

Beryl knew that down the road a ways at her B&B, guests were similarly huddled.  
They had a scattering of visitors who would flee if the announcement came today, go back to their own homes that they'd still thought to leave even a week before. 

She sighed and shifted in her chair, bones hurting more each week.

 

“I don't know what we'll do without the regional program,” Elsie Hughes said, interrupting her thoughts to bring in the tea. “I've become quite fond of those gentlemen, like they're family really.”  
(The house was too quiet, all by herself. Elsie smiled slightly at her friend.)  
“Not that there's anything exactly wrong with the southerners, but I don't know why they need to go all in one.”

 

“Annie said it was to make the war announcements easier to transmit. Though why they couldn't just phone them out to a handful of announcers instead of one, I'll not know.  
“Maybe they think we'll follow them better if they sound like they're coming from the London mucks.”  
Beryl shook her head and reached for a biscuit, chewing with a small murmur of approval at the delicious bit. 

 

But this war business interrupted her pleasure.  
Foolishness, really. Why, she didn't want to say it, but if they had only one station, wouldn't that be the first target the huns would try to strike?  
And if they moved it about, wouldn't that put the rest of the country in danger? 

 

“I've put by some extra sugar and candles,” she confided after swallowing. “Some flour, too.”  
“Not enough to be considered hoarding, you know,” Beryl waggled her eyebrows. “But enough to fill in at the start.”

 

“No doubt it's needless to worry, though I admit I've done some of the same.”  
Mrs. Hughes replied in amusement. “And I did notice something odd.”  
She put down her cup and leaned forward, dropping her voice. “The stockings and knickers were flying off the shelves in Leeds when I went there last week for a winter coat.”

 

“Elastic! Elastic and kirby grips!” Beryl Patmore chuckled. “How could I forget?”  
  
“I got some myself, and some lengths of cloth, too, enough to share if you'd like,” Elsie nodded her head. “I'm sure we'll be patched and twice turned by the end of things, so it probably's no matter, but at least we've tried to think ahead.”

She, too, had a point in her mind—a boundary between stocking up and hoarding which she'd never cross.  
(Odd to measure out patriotism in lengths of cloth and candles, but there it was.)

 

“Old dogs know the tricks,” Beryl nodded.  
The music was interrupted by a crackling announcer, and Neville Chamberlain came on. 

It was such a sunny morning, but Mrs. Patmore felt like she should immediately hide in the darkest corner she could find. (Unsettling, though the words weren't unexpected.)  
And, yet, when the national anthem came on after and Elsie Hughes automatically stood, she did, too.  
Two old women with sad eyes and straight backs, standing together.

  

“We'll need to get the laundry bleached and done up right,” Mrs. Hughes said lightly.  
“If the Germans really do try for us tonight, they shouldn't find us with dust in our homes.”

 

“But we can finish our tea and rest for a bit, until Daisy comes by to drive me home. That girl still doesn't know how to sew straight.”  
And Mrs. Patmore launched into a tale of sewing blackout curtains that had Mrs. Hughes chuckling richly.  
Poor Daisy. She never lived up to Beryl Patmore's exacting standards, even now.

\---

“They interrupted the church service with it, never thought I'd see the day,” Daisy nattered on as they rode home. “The vicar looked numbed, not scandalized, and everything scandalizes that man. So it must be the apocalypse coming tonight for sure.”

“Really, Daisy,” Mrs. Patmore said in rebuke. The children were in the back, and at eleven little pitchers had big ears.

“We've heard worse than that, granny,” Davey Parker said, grinning. “Mr. Smith dug a bomb shelter in his back yard, you know. Said the rest of us might live in a fantasy, but he was organized enough to carry on, civilized.”  
“Has chairs and lights and everything,” piped up his sister Dolly. “Shouldn't we ask dad to make us one?”

 

“It's like a playhouse to them. Almost playacting a story, most like,” Daisy said in a low voice to the older woman, only then talking louder for the rest.

“I'd rather your daddy patch the barn and keep the rain from the animals. We have a good stone cellar kitted out with what we need. And a lot easier to get to than groping our way through the backyard.”  
Daisy gave a derisive huff, and her children laughed. 

 

“And what does Mr. Smith think the Germans want in Downton anyway? Our prize pigs?  
“If they attack tonight, we'll be safe enough, until they're driven out again.”  
And with that, they drove quickly down the lane to Yew Tree, where work went on, even on a Sunday.

 

Truth be told, Daisy Parker was terrified. Blindly terrified, having already lost a husband to the first war.  
But she certainly wasn't going to let her little ones see it.  
Mothers hid many things from their children. 

(And if she'd spent the last month hiding tins of food behind the shelving, and going round to various stores to get the “appropriate” amount of flour, mounting up into a hoard.....she made no show of it.)  
“It will be fine, you'll see. Apocalypse come what may.”  
Daisy pulled into their yard and tooted the horn twice at Daniel, waving.

The children scampered out into the sunshine.  
But for once the Sunday morning brought no sense of peace.

\---

“Hard to think of war coming from the air,” Lady Mary Crawley said as she and Tom Branson walked along the path.  
A small puff of some fluffy seed drifted down in the breeze before them.  
“I remember when we never heard a motor anywhere, roadway or air. And now there are dozens of times a day.”

 

“You'll sound like your father in a minute,” Tom smiled and teased her.  
“He was so upset when the number of motor cars reached over a dozen. Terror in the roadways.”

 

“But it does seem more intrusive somehow,” Mary drawled. “When they fly right over your home.”  
“No one drives up without some reason. Yet, who knows why that man is going over.”  
And she pointed at a small winged spot in the sky. 

Airplanes still didn't go by with the frequency of motor cars.  
But the sky overhead was, indeed, no longer their own private domain. 

 

“You're just angry at Edith,” Tom grinned at her.  
“Edith and her contraptions,” Mary scoffed immediately, and in a tone that gave truth to his guess.  
“Why would any normal lady want to gad about in an airplane? And she's got Marigold at it, too, barely seventeen.”

 

“I remember teaching Edith to drive,” Tom conceded. “And at first I truly thought she'd give up on it. But she got quite good, you know.”  
“But airplanes?” Mary said archly. “Does she think she'll help England by flying missions?”

They both laughed at that.  
Edith's novels had become quite popular, mainly because of her 'feisty' female protagonists. (Mainly variants on ladies Edith wished to be.)

 

“Sybbie's latest exploit is practicing driving down the lanes in the dark.”  
Tom reached out and snapped a twig hanging near the path.  
Mary rolled her eyes, and he nodded back. 

“I know. Foolishness. But my darling love has it in her head that she'll need to race off in case of a bombing, into the darkness to help.”  
“Black outs don't allow for headlights, obviously.”

 

“Which is your fault for involving papa,” Mary said somewhat crossly.  
“He has half the house involved in turn.”

"And mama..." she drifted off.

 

“I heard about the drill at the hospital.”  
Tom stopped as Mary sat down on her usual bench by the path.  
“Sybbie said your mother quite startled Dr. Hollingsworth with her efforts.”

“Yes, well, she's right, of course. We saw war, and the young doctor hasn't, nor Sybbie either.”  
Mary patted the seat and Tom came to rest.  
“They need to know that you can have terrified patients, not just docile ones. Dirt and emergencies. And if it's war wounds on top of regular surgeries, he shouldn't be surprised.”

 

“Still, the idea of a countess suggesting how best to strip and clean a gas emergency set him back a bit.” (The actor struggling in mock hysteria as clothing was ripped away.)  
And Tom's laughter broke through then, with thoughts of Cora's innocent blue eyed stare pinning the doctor to the wall as she questioned him on the procedure.

 

“She's too old to be on that board still, but I'm not telling her that,” Mary admitted. “We English might never say die, but the Americans have a sort of stubborn pride, too.”  
“And she's a bit of both now, right?” Tom prodded, though he knew that to those at Downton, transplants (like him) were never really accepted. It took, perhaps, to the third generation to be anything other than “new.”

 

Mary pursed her lips, eyes suddenly brighter with a thought.  
“Did she really arrange for someone to playact a childbirth right in the middle of it all?”  
Mary's voice was low, slightly shocked but amused.

“Oh, and that's not the best of it, according to Sybbie.”  
Branson settled back for a full gossip of the proceedings, knowing that Lady Mary would always pretend to abhor such scandalous things, yet enjoy them none the less.

It was one of the reasons they were close. Mary had the belief of her class that some things were 'common,' yet she somehow didn't act on such prejudices like most of her peers.  
Perhaps it came from being a bit on the outside of the circle of lords and ladies, finding a new niche and new beliefs on her own.

\---

“Black out begins 7.47 BST,” Phyllis Moseley reminded the rest of them as they skittered around to prepare for dinner service.  
“I think we've got everything in place, so it's just to swing the drapes down when the gong rings, then be back to serve.”

“We'll have a bad time of it this week, so hopefully Mr. Moseley will leave checking us until last,” Mr. Barrow said calmly.  
“I think we might close the sitting room earlier, then the dining room at the gong, then you and Anna do the bedrooms while we serve?”

 

“That's the problem with so many windows,” Daisy said sensibly, stirring around past them and continuing to cook.  
(The 'assistant cook' had taken over the luncheon for the most part, but it was always a catch up, any time any of them left the house, with staffing still a bit short.)

 

“I looked at the church this morning and realized what a job of it the guild would have to button it all up. And they haven't yet, saying church was always in daylight, but won't we need the building perhaps for meetings and such?”

The cook looked at Mr. Barrow and he nodded thoughtfully.  
Daisy was always a bright one, Thomas knew. And this time, brighter than the men in charge.  
“The first week will show them the problems, but I'll bring it up at the next meeting...or Andy can.  
“Just like running a grand house. The higher ups give the orders, but it's for us on the ground to make work of them, what we can within the regulations they throw down in our way.”

 

They split apart then to get on with things.  
But everyone that day felt a sense of the ominous.  
It had finally become official.  
And, for a change, they actually expected some dark thing to attack them, could no longer deny that it would happen. 

They'd been issued the gas masks. They'd heard war declared.  
Surely the Germans would attack that night.


	3. Chapter 3

-  
-  
-  
But the Germans didn't attack that night nor that week.  
And it was like a 'funny war' of sorts in the making, ridiculous for all the warnings and yet no cataclysm come.  
So the villagers followed the restrictions, especially the black outs, more for fear of breaking the regulations than for fear of foreign attack.

And every night, the wardens made their dismal march down the meadows and lanes, knowing that in some minds they were playing the fool. 

 

Joseph Moseley was one of the those fools.

The darkness was like a living thing, pressing against his skin as the teacher went tripping down to the village.  
Unusual, really, the way night now made him grumble and groan.

Previously, Moseley had liked the night, had frequently calmed himself by going out to look up at the starry sky. Stars were constant. Stars were a beautiful miracle that even a poor man could enjoy. 

 

But tonight there weren't even any stars to light his way, hidden as they were behind the gathering clouds.  
There was just a dark, uneven path with gnarled roots reaching up to foil him.  
Moseley grimaced theatrically as he took another near miss toward the ditch.

 

Unfortunately, as one of the ARP wardens, Joseph couldn't risk using his torch.  
The mood of the villagers had been nothing short of disrespectful and disbelieving of the ARP anyway.  
Why, they seemed to dislike him more than Germans at this moment.  
For he was the one inconveniencing them.

 

“What are you going to do to me?” squawked old Mrs. Farrabee when he'd ventured to tell her she needed to get some black out curtains or douse the light.  
“What are you going to do to me?” the woman shook her fist. “If your father were alive, I'd have him told, how you're treating a widow woman.”  
And she'd slammed the door with as much force as her ancient body could spare.

Moseley was dejected as he trudged on.  
The teacher'd worked so hard at the school to be an object of respect and not ridicule, and now he was once again doubting himself.  
He'd gathered signatures for the League's Peace Ballot with Daisy and Phyllis, all that while back, so he wasn't in any way the martial type.

But Lord Grantham had latched onto him, arguing that this committee was a protection for the village, not an adjunctive or incentive to war, so Moseley had agreed to help.  
(Joseph Moseley was always willing to help.)

 

“Put that light out,” he called down the side road to a farmer, walking with a lantern home.  
And heard something that sounded like “village idiot” as a reply.  
Hopefully the town folk would be better. 

Moseley smoothed his jacket and adjusted his warden's hat.  
If only they'd not made the uniforms look so official; people didn't like any sort of petty officialdom at Downton.

 

A week in and the war all seemed phony, he knew.  
The BBC gave out mainly silly, small war announcements, like fixing prices for sales of pigs (angered Lady Mary, certainly enough.)  
The week's cricket scores held more interest.

No grand battle news yet.  
And speeches. Folks in the village already knew they were expected to support their country, so a glut of speeches mainly fell flat.  
(Except the King's speech, that had been something, but so much else felt thin and weak.)

 

Moseley felt the dissatisfaction growing around him.  
But he still had to carry on with his duty, walking through the village, checking for lights  
as though each night attack was coming.  
He grumbled some more and sighed.

 

At least he was coming to the Bates home, where he'd always received warm welcome.  
Moseley circled the households, coming finally to stop in the Bates garden.  
A slight shriek and a slap were his reward.

For Anna Bates, kindhearted Anna of all people, had been startled out of a nocturnal reverie by his unexpected presence.

First a small exclamation, then “Heavens, Mr. Moseley is that you?”  
And when he'd turned back toward her trying to muster a smile,  
she'd added “lurking in the garden?”

 

(He hadn't been lurking. He huffed slightly at the thought.)  
“Doing m'rounds, Anna. Must check for cracks of light in case of invasion, you know.”  
(He tried for some tone of pride.)  
“You just need some tea. Come in and chat a bit,” Anna had invited, apologetically, and he knew she thought the job small and silly, easily put aside. 

But he really had to get on.  
(Cut through more back yards, anger more housewives.)  
So Moseley thanked her and moved on, less happy still.

 

Tripping slightly, he twice dropped his hat with a clang.  
Hoping no one's dog would become alarmed enough to bite.  
It seemed a much longer walk in the dark.

\---

Finally reaching the square, Mr. Moseley jumped out of his skin and gave an undignified yelp of terror when Tim Smith jumped out at him from behind the memorial, just a young lad pulling a prank.  
(But it wasn't amusing to poor old Moseley, to have his wits scared from him, prank or no.)  
“Get on with you then!” he veritably snapped at the laughing, runaway youngster.

 

Then “don't panic, don't panic” to the pub keeper who'd ducked out to check for a fight.  
“How is the entrance holding?” Moseley tried again his even, official tone.  
(Entrances to businesses had been a weak point; they'd known it from the first.)

“What d'you expect? People keep coming in fine, one set of drapes then the other, but drunks don't do well with airlocks going out.”  
The pub owner glared over toward Moseley, but at least he didn't make any nasty comments.  
“Thank you for doing it all,” Moseley answered, gratefully. “I know it's a bother, but it will be safety in the future.”  
The man snorted in disbelief.  
And the warden moved on into the night.

 

He tried not to feel silly or petty as he went about his tasks.  
He tried to remember the talk Lord Grantham had given to rope him into this.  
But within a few moments of stumbling, Moseley grimaced and groaned once more.

There were still the far farms, and Mrs. Calloway had a pitchfork by her back door, (Germans, beware!!) so that was always a tense part of the route.

Some people would remain friends with Moseley by the end of this.  
He hoped.  
And in the meantime, he'd try to make sure they'd be safe. 

“His lordship's right. We can't let them get this beautiful place.”  
And seeing another errant figure ahead, Joseph called sternly, “Put out that light!”


	4. Chapter 4

(Note: city evacuations of children were planned, and the BBC has audio of cheerful children telling tales. The villagers, however, had some mutterings, apparently, since the first evacuations were not as organized as the officials had been expecting.  
Later ones came and went more smoothly.  
I intentionally didn't name the city (the files are like troop movements and confusing)...but it would more probably be Leeds, given what clips I've read.)

 

-  
-  
-  
If it were only wireless broadcasts and warnings, they could hold it all at arm's length.  
But the thing that made the war finally 'real' to people in Downton was the arrival of evacuees in '39.

Out of the grey dawn mist, the buses came with load after load--  
far more than the call from officials led them to expect.

 

Thinking it an ordinary autumn day, Dolly and Davey Parker raced down the paths to the schoolhouse as usual that morning.  
Their mum and dad had gone to the big house and granny had sent them on to classes unaware that this was the official day now come.  
But as they got to the village, passing friends caught the twins up to date.

 

“Wonder what they'll look like?” Davey yelled back over his shoulder, using a switch to rattle on the pickets of the outer household fences.  
“Like us, prolly, you ninny,” Dolly said sensibly, though her excited expression and bouncing braids gave lie to any attempts to be casual or calm.

The two Parker twins soon stood wide eyed across the street from the schoolhouse.  
Mr. Moseley was obviously turning away regular classes, and Lady Grantham was there with Miss Sybil, which meant important matters were being decided to be sure. 

 

“If the big house knows, then mum knows,” Dolly said, a bit nervously.  
Inside the buses children stared back, tired, at her.  
“Hope granny doesn't make her choose all boys for our part.”

 

“Be nice to have a boy around instead of you,” Davey said and stuck out his tongue.  
But then he grinned.  
“Fair's fair, though. Maybe they'll give us an assortment. There sure are a lot of them.”

 

“They aren't chocolates from Rowntree. An 'assortment' he says. What an idjit,” and Dolly grinned back at her twin.  
“Let's go back then...” she started. Then, “no, granny's had Daniel drive her in.”  
For there was Mrs. Patmore and Danny Barrow parking carefully.  
The children ran up to them.

“Poor little lambs,” they heard her murmur about the busloads before catching sight of them.  
She turned as they roared up.  
“You two heathens. Why aren't you two inside?”  
After a light smack on Davey's shoulder, she folded them easily into her arms.

 

“School can't hold classes for the day. We were just about to come back, truly we were,” Dolly explained.  
“But now that you're here, can we stay and watch?” Davey interjected. 

“Watch what?” Daniel gave him a long look.  
“Aren't we taking some of them home?” Davey said bluntly. “I heard mum say we'll house one or two....and it looks like there's a great lot of them here.”  
“They aren't livestock, Davey. They're visitors from the city.”

 

“Now then, think of them as family we haven't met yet,” Mrs. Patmore added sensibly. “They'll help us with regular chores and such, but we'll still show them round 'til they learn the ropes.”  
She shook her head. “At any rate, too late for backing out now—them or us.”

And Mrs. Patmore clutched a bit at her collar as the children began to get off the buses, labels pinned to their clothing like some sort of directions for care.  
“Poor lambs,” she murmured softly again.

 

More and more villagers were arriving, and trucks from the tenancies.  
They were meeting the challenge full force.  
“You two go back to the farm, and we'll be there as we can. You'll just make for more confusion if you stay.”  
Daniel spoke sternly to them, and he meant business. Their father sometimes had that tone. 

 

Davey heaved a sigh.  
“Might as well get one last bit of fun out at the barn before the invasion,” he said to his twin as they started back.  
“I hope they don't just pick boys,” Dolly answered again. “It's not that I don't like boys, but it would be nice to have someone with sense for once.”

\---

It WAS a sort of invasion in its own way.  
The children were English, to be sure, but they had a different way of viewing the world that made them foreign to their hosts. 

The lack of a cinema and Woolworth's seemed to daze the lot.  
Bakewell's? What a tiny place was that.  
Danny almost laughed to hear the chatter of them as they formed their ragged row.  
Four. 

Daisy Parker would be in rare form when she heard. (And poor Dolly, hopes already dashed.)

 

But four sturdy, rebellious lads now stood in front of Danny Barrow and gave him the wary eye.  
“Right. And I'm from Manchester, and I'm surviving, so you'll do just fine.”  
He laid it on a bit thick, city to city, man to man.

“We've a bunkhouse of sorts out here that I thought would suit you best, although Mrs. Patmore might try to win you over at some point.”  
“But I liked bachelor's quarters fine, and I thought maybe the same for you?”  
He tried to sound authoritative, yet a bit matey.

 

There would be a tiny sum of money for their keep, but everyone still had jobs.  
(At least they'd find Barrow and easier task master than he'd had himself as a lad.  
No boy would get such treatment from him.)

“We don't normally waste the electric, but the first few nights we'll leave a small light on in the bunkhouse. I've covered us up with blackouts so that won't get us into the stew.”  
(Nightmares? Did boys this old have nightmares? Well, maybe anyone would.)  
“Just don't give us away going out back to the privy.”

 

The boys looked aghast at the thought of an outdoor toilet and well water.  
But Mrs. Patmore had been equally aghast at their clothing, nowhere near suitable for the country air.  
It was a bit of a culture clash.

 

An hour or so later, the Parkers rolled into the farm lane, gravel crunching, skipping the servants lunch entirely to check in.  
Danny could hear their voices as they drew near.  
Door opening, the boys jumped, and one tried to hide behind an amused Barrow.  
As though in that small space of time he'd become a point of security in a moving world.

 

Andy came in smiling in that calm, shy way he had, eyes soft and kind.  
Daisy followed, mouth popping open before it snapped shut.  
She knelt down instinctively, so as to be eye to eye. 

“So you're our new men then?”  
Daisy said it calmly, though her eyes were moving about taking in what was needed and trying to imagine what could be.  
“Well, a couple of you are a bit on the thin side. I'll most surely have to cook up a special pudding when I come back tonight.”

Food. The common denominator that showed someone comfort in disaster or celebration.

“So, will you introduce us to your boys, Daniel?”  
And Mrs. Parker dearly hoped the Barrow gene for acting in loco parentis was strong enough in the young man to handle this motley group.

\---

On returning to the big house, Daisy would soon get a greater shock.

“It's really just letting them eat with you, and rounding up some toys from the attics to play,”  
Miss Sybbie tried not to feel guilty as she explained things to Barrow and Nanny.  
They were trusted allies, really, but they were standing there unresponsive, as though numb.

“I thought they could take the rooms in the women's wing where the extra maids used to be. The door could shut off so it would be like a separate apartment, with an area for their children to play in, once we get things set.”

 

“But, Miss Sybbie,” Barrow began, rubbing his temple somewhat.  
“They'll need to go out for air, surely. It's not just Mrs. Parker cooking more or us having a second sitting to eat.”  
The butler looked at her with slightly narrowed eyes.

You see, Sybbie had presented Mr. Barrow with the hardest luck group of the lot.  
Not just children.  
No, when the buses rolled in, the villagers had come together as one to welcome the children. 

Not because they especially wanted to, but because they could well imagine their own young ones in a similar predicament and, therefore, had sympathy for these strange fledglings sent with labels like parcels in post.

 

But one little group received no such sympathy.  
Standing a bit aside from the rest were four mothers with toddlers in tow.  
Four pregnant mothers.  
Even the most kind hearted matron in Downton could see no plan for that. 

So Sybbie and Lady Grantham, somewhat in desperation, had told the women that they'd have to come to the Abbey until something better came up.  
And they'd called out Branson to help drive.

So now while Cora “informed” Robert, and Tom passed along the solution to Mary, that left Sybbie to deal with the harsh realities.

“Right then,” Nanny finally said, sizing up the toddlers. “A couple of playrooms set up in the maids wing shouldn't take long. Can Mrs. Moseley help air out the bedrooms? We've a need for fresh linens and such.”

Mr. Barrow breathed slowly in and slowly out, appraising the one particularly despondent young woman in his line of sight.  
“I'll tell Mrs. Moseley,” he reluctantly agreed.  
“But I'm not sure about what might be for dinner. Maybe catch as catch can of the cold foods for tonight?”  
Barrow ran through the necessities swiftly, mind clicking off what could and could not be done. 

 

“If we get them settled for now, that's enough, and in the morning, I'll try to worry our way through the rest.”  
He gave Miss Sybbie an ironic look.  
“However...I do not want the duty of delivering babies, young miss,” he said curtly, but without malice. “So your job tomorrow is figuring out someone else on call for all matters of maternity. Yes?”

 

Sybbie felt like her five year old self, wanting to grab the butler into a hug.  
She grinned back at him, comfortable and, now, less afraid.  
“Not in a butler's job description?”

“Cheeky,” he replied, thinning his lips. But still, he moved away, taking the challenge in stride. 

Hadn't he run a convalescent home last time?  
Surely this small group of fecund women wouldn't prove any harder than that.


	5. Chapter 5

(Note: The biggest complaints I read about in that first year of evacuees were lice and bedwetting.  
So....I'm not trying to in any way stereotype the city children with a Dickensian brush.  
Hopefully, this is not offensive, just period appropriate.)

-  
-  
-

A few of the children had lice, and the village women gathered whispering to one another at Bakewell's.  
Some wet the bed, too.  
It was shameful.  
Due to county health officers teaching in the schools about proper hygiene. these things had become as abhorrent to the sensibilities of county folk as immoral behavior would have been in years gone by. 

“What can we do?” they'd whisper frantically, trying not to scratch at the mere mention of the subject.  
And bleached sheets began awkwardly to dot the clothes lines at farms and village homes alike. 

 

Fortunately, at the big house, their poor, small group was louse free and tidy enough.  
The toddlers that gamboled through the inner hall wore diapers, and as such had behaviors typical of the age.  
So the laundress wasn't happy, but she didn't run away in disgust.

Barrow, meanwhile, with his usual affinity for small fry, did not leave the door locked between the halves, but sneaked through quite frequently to make sure all was going well.

 

Likewise out at Yew Tree, Danny Barrow made his lost boys comfortable.  
Indeed, doing so had gone far to solve one of the problems the village tongues clacked about.  
For fewer fears meant less bedwetting as his boys didn't 'regress' and the terrible trek to the privy more as a joke than a nightmare.

Of course, cleanliness was still an issue.  
The Yew Tree lot had come in rather grubby, and Daniel and Mrs. Patmore chipped away at it from the start.

(“I'll take the sheep shears to the lot of you if you dare bring an infestation in this house,” Beryl Patmore had threatened with just enough gusto to make the boys both afraid and comforted with thoughts of their own grans.  
Thus, with irritated amusement, Beryl's boys scrubbed as best they knew until they'd finally made the grade.)

 

And good things came to 'clean' boys.  
New clothing was already underway from the team of Patmore and Hughes, who knitted and sewed in Yew Tree's front room these days.  
Eyes not as good as years gone by, slower perhaps, but still quite capable enough to clothe four errant boys.

Now clothing had not been part of the allowance agreed to, but Mrs. Patmore & Mrs. Hughes still did it willingly.  
It gave both of them a real feeling of being part of Britain's war.

 

For in spite of calling it a phony war, with comedians having a heyday,  
the Downton people were coming together around the flag as 1940 rolled in.  
Hearing reports of Hitler's lunacies, they one by one had to come to terms with whether it was worth it to fight and, perhaps die. 

“Proper pissed off. Let's get the bastards,” was Mr. Mason's summary of his growing resentment.  
And in one way or another, each man jack of them seemed to be digging in to that same thought.

\---

Bit by bit the call ups were adding to the feeling of wartime even in the relatively peaceful countryside.  
At the big house, the orders came for the gardeners, only recently expanded to nearly full force. 

“We'll be back to 1929, then,” Lady Mary complained over dinner.  
“Do we know if anyone else received their notice?” Sybbie asked in a worried tone.

 

“They've tried to make things more 'strategic,' I've been told,” Robert said lightly.  
“Barrington said even those who volunteer are being screened more carefully, since in the last war we had so many essential people leave us short.”

“Andrew should be safe from it, then, and Mr. Barrow's nephew,” Sybbie asked casually coming back around to her worry.  
She looked up at Parker as she said it.  
“You aren't going, are you, Andrew?”

“No, Miss Sybbie, not yet at least. His Lordship's right, at least so far. They think I'm essential as a warden and Danny, Daniel I mean, is keeping things together at Yew Tree, you know.  
“Of course it could change as they need to reinforce.”

 

Lady Mary nodded. “They did take all of our footmen last time, but left us some farmers. When the time comes, Andrew, you should make sure they know you're both, really. Otherwise, we'll be losing the pigs.”

“Ah, the pigs,” teased Tom.  
Sybbie's mouth turned up. (Relief made even her daddy's poor jest wonderfully funny.)  
“An army travels on its stomach, daddy,” she said back.  
“And so does a village,” Mary added drily, earning a slight sound of amusement from her father before he took a sip of his wine.

\---

Of course, not everyone was finding the outside staff's call ups so easy to take.

Edward Pipwick slowly limped around the pleasure garden, reaching out to touch a plant here or there with the hand not fastened to his cane.  
It was already the dying time of year, which always made him glum.  
These plants, they were his babies, really, the only legacy he'd ever have.  
Pipwick shook his head slowly and sighed.

 

“You must get in from the damp, old man,” his friend Samuelson quarreled as he followed after him.  
“Pip, come on with you.”

“If the boys go, what will we do to save the gardens?” Pipwick grumbled, batting Sam away. “The two of us could keep things going alone in the Great War, almost had to when things slumped. But now...”  
And he growled in frustration as he shook the cane he was now forced to use. 

“All of this will go by the wayside,” he said, finally.  
“It will go to weeds and ruin.”

 

“And if it does, the boys'll bring it back after the war is over,” Samuelson said firmly.  
(Please let them come back safe and sound, the old man thought.)  
“Or maybe we can get some of the women to come out and work. They do that in factories in the city, why not in country house gardens?”

Sam folded his arms around himself and frowned at Pip.  
“Now come in out of this cold,” he said, gruff and firm.

 

The two made their slow way back into the gardener's cottage.  
Pip taking to bed, unsure if he'd ever want to leave it again.  
He sighed at the ridiculous waste of politicians,  
not caring who ruled him if they let him tend his gardens in peace.

\---

Inside staff was feeling the intrusion of the evacuees less and less as time went by.

Indeed, as the months passed, Mr. Barrow's maternity ward was having a surprising way of dwindling, one woman at a time.  
The first did so when a visit from her pleading husband made her too homesick to care.  
“Our house is standing fine, and I need dinner,” he dared complain. “Factory work is essential, you know.”  
Barrow rolled his eyes at the man's lack of concern.

His wife had given birth just days before, but the man soon had her, the baby, and two toddlers trundling toward the road.  
“Mrs. Patmore always said God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” commented Daisy, watching them leave that Tuesday.

“I've also heard He favors fools and children, so maybe that lot will manage to survive.”  
Barrow shook his head and went back to work.

 

The second up and left in the middle of the night with her children.  
The poor woman felt embarrassed at her lack of gratitude but really didn't enjoy country life at all.  
“Like a thief in the night,” Barrow said in disgust the next day.  
He'd not miss her at all, though her children had him worried, their sad little faces imprinted on his mind.

Beside him, Mrs. Moseley nodded.  
“She'd rather face bombs than do without her moving pictures. Can you believe the lack of sense some of these young things have?”  
And Phyllis angrily bit off the thread from where she was sewing,  
a kind woman pushed into judgment for once.

 

Fortunately, the third was more gracious, in spite of her lack of station.  
“I've come to thank you, I have, but it's time for me to be going,” she said one morning to Mrs. Moseley.  
“The government left us flat there, and you came to our rescue. But I've a house still standing, myself, and family who need my work back home.”

Ah, finances, they could understand that reason at least.  
Coming to the root of things, the visitor said, “I had a job before I married, and I reckon they'll need me back now at a proper wage, what with the men going. We could use some cash for a change.”  
Phyllis, nodding, had patted her hand actually sad to see her go.

 

With only one left, they could basically close up shop, both the butler and housekeeper agreed.  
They'd been no trouble, really.

Of course, that was when the youngest mother made monkeys of them all. 

\---

Having gone to bed half exhausted, Thomas intended no distractions.  
He'd turned out his light without reading a page, and soon was sleeping so soundly that the knock seemed a part of it.  
His eyes flickered open, but he stayed still, not sure of what he'd heard.

Another tentative tapping came then, with a soft “Mr. Barrow?”  
And this time Thomas was on his feet and to the door in one step.

 

It was always the quiet ones who surprised you, he thought, seeing the fourth of 'his' women standing nervously there.  
“Your time?” he asked, seeing how her hand was clutched into a fist over her belly.

A slight hum of agreement came, but nothing else through her tightly pressed lips.  
Then a sigh out as the pain passed.  
“I'm so sorry.”

 

She of the desolate eyes, Thomas thought--Ann.  
He reached to grab a robe, suddenly remembering propriety, and wasplanning to herd her back to the room and get help.  
Another noise, and on this one more of a moan escaped before she could clamp down on it.

 

No moving her while the pain passed through.  
With one hand holding her steady on, Thomas reached past to pound sharply on the hall boy's door.  
Not much help, but at least he could make a telephone call to the doctor and run for Mrs. Moseley.  
Barrow, clear headed, barked the orders to the sleep stunned youth.

 

“I'm so sorry. I couldn't wait,” the young woman said panting as the boy went fleeing past.  
“No, not at all,” he said back, voice calm and level.  
“We'll just get you back laid down.”

As though walking a lady down the lane, Mr. Barrow took the young girl, leaning on him, down the hall.  
A couple of steps, pause. A couple of steps, pause.  
It seemed like an eternity to walk the short distance to a bed.

 

“Right then. We'll just muddle through, you and I,” he told her in his gentlest voice,  
knuckles rubbing a stubbled chin as he considered what lay ahead.  
Think how Mrs. Hughes would do things, Barrow told himself as he looked into Ann's wide blue eyes.

Why, she was not much older than Sybbie.  
Looked like a child herself, truly.  
And Barrow buried his absolute reluctance under that thought.

 

So for all of his warnings to everyone around him, Barrow ended up 'in deliveries' anyway.  
Which made for quite a bit of humor, upstairs and down.

 

And after that, Ann felt like family, everyone agreed.  
She would simply be folded in among them, another willing pair of hands for as long as needed.  
By the end of the war, who knew, Barrow thought.

Maybe could stay there, she and young baby Thomas.  
Find some job agreeable to her husband?  
Stranger things had happened, surely, during a war.


	6. Chapter 6

-  
-

It became the spring and summer of the 'alien,' and a scarier creation no cinema director had managed heretofore.

Yes, the official process to classify 'enemy aliens' had started almost from the beginning, the past fall.  
'A' aliens were the ones thought most dangerous, with 'B' suspicious, and 'C' no real risk seen.  
But the tribunals varied in the ways they looked at things, Leeds hedging with more 'B's' to be better safe than sorry; Manchester going more to 'C,' proven out by war's end.

And it took time to identify, find, and classify people. 

 

The people at Downton village at first thought it all rather silly.

They laughed when the Yorkshire Evening News reported an organ grinder had a sign saying “I'm Brittish and the monkey's from India”  
or a watch shop flying the Union Jack and relabeling itself 'Smith's' instead of 'Schmidt's.'

Foolishness.

 

But then came April 1940 when Norway was invaded, followed in May by the Lowlands.  
And people began to talk of 'fifth columnists' who'd helped defeat the countries from within.  
And Mussolini's declaration added tension by June.

 

True, the nearest Italians were at least two towns over from the village.  
Downton was safe from them, the gossips reasoned.

But there was a German family out on one of the farms to the west, they'd whisper.  
The baker.  
That one old couple close by the station.  
And Nanny at the big house was German, too.

 

The whispering grew as people got angrier with the headlines.

And the shopkeepers began to study her, wondering at her clinging to her accent in spite of working at several area houses.  
She'd come to Britain before the first war. Might it not have started then?

It was well into summer when Nanny's name came up for classification—a most inauspicious time to have it come to pass.

\---

“I don't understand why a magistrate should have more authority than me to judge the loyalty of my servant,” Lord Grantham burst out as they stood in the library mid day.

He'd never had a friendly disposition to the constables, not after Bates all those years back, and he'd never found a reason to change his mind. 

 

“I'm sorry, my lord, but it's the process. You've no say in it,” the man told him blandly.  
Not even that cheerful Sgt. Willis, now retired.  
This one, a Sgt. Madden, had a certain lean and hungry look about him—and Robert knew to not trust such types at all. 

“Well, I should have a say in it. She's had nothing but good service here, and had references from two other lords before,” the old earl insisted.

 

“Do you think we'd trust our children to a sympathizer?” Lady Mary added.  
She stood beside the teary eyed old woman.  
(Kind old woman. Peaceful library. How could such an ugly thing happen here?) 

“Any servant here has proven themselves or we'd not let them stay.”  
Lady Mary had drawn herself up to her tallest and was using the frosty tones that would have tenants worried for their livelihood.

 

“I'm sorry, my lady, but I must take her before the tribunal whether she has your recommendation or not,” Madden said. “It's just a sorting, truly, and if she's found not to be a threat, she'll be back this evening.”  
(The man was aggravated at all the arguments, and his feet hurt. He really just wanted to get on with things.)

 

“You don't go before a judge without an attorney,” insisted Lord Grantham. “Tell me where she's going, and I'll call someone.”

“No attorneys. Just a sorting process, really. If for some reason she's found to be a problem and things need to go further, there's a chance at appeal.”  
The man narrowed his eyes. “But, of course, you say she doesn't have any issues to worry about.”

 

Lord Grantham sputtered a bit helplessly, hands tied.  
“Come along. You aren't the only person the magistrate sees today by a long ways.”  
And with that he led Nanny away.

 

“I don't understand this,” Lady Mary said, sitting down. 

“I do, The world has once again gone mad,” Tom Branson offered, walking past to get a drink. “When they go to fearing bakery owners and nannies.”

Tom had been there the week before when a similar scene had separated a man from his family in the middle of a work day.  
The German population of Downton village was about two dozen, if you counted anyone who'd been born there or born here from German parents.

 

“It's not Entirely mad to keep a watch on things, but to waste time on obviously innocent people,” Mary shook her head.  
“It's taking them off of actually important business.”  
Branson smiled at her tendency now to cut straight to bottom line.

“Let's hope she'll be back by evening,” Cora said softly from the corner, going to ring for Barrow. “The children are having lessons now, but we'll need to make sure there's something for them when they're done.”

\---

Meanwhile, downstairs, Mr. Moseley was also having a bit of 'trouble at the mill,'  
his simply on the basis of last names.

Another man, last name spelled Mosley, had made all the headlines for being a fascist.  
And under a Regulation 18B, they had gone after him, too.  
It had been done with a splash to raise morale in the country, and Moseley now was suffering for it.

As the rumor mill kept churning on.

 

“I don't like the way Leslie Wigan looked at me this morning,” Joseph complained to his wife.  
On his day off, Moseley had been running errands before coming up to the big house for luncheon.  
“She's got that way of giving the evil eye to a body that quite makes m'blood run cold.”

 

Phyllis laughed and patted him on the arm.  
He worried so about things.  
“She doesn't think you're a fifth columnist, Mr. Moseley. Of that you may be sure.”  
She said it drily, but her smile was still gentle and amused.

 

“You don't hear the way the people in the village are talking. And the young ones pick up and talk like it at school.”  
Moseley sighed. “I worked on the peace ballot, and so did you. This other fellow tried to style himself for peace, though he's a fascist at heart.  
“But they don't seem to understand we don't even share the same last name, much less any sort of politics.”

 

“What's this?” Barrow said, coming in and tossing a newspaper into His chair.  
“Are the lovebirds quarreling?”

Phyllis gave him a look.  
He just smirked back, knowing that she'd take his joking in stride.  
(Family always did.)  
“Mr. Moseley is having issues with the post mistress,” the housekeeper replied.

 

“That old bird should have packed up long ago, Mr. Moseley. No one worries what she thinks.”  
Barrow went to make a note in the butler's diary before he could sit.

The others began to file in.  
“Besides we've bigger fish to fry.”

 

“Did they really arrest Nanny?” Anna Bates asked, having just come down from changing Lady Mary into riding clothes, but wanting a more full telling of it from the butler's perspective.  
“It's ridiculous to think she'd do anything amiss.”

“We've had a remarkably long run without having the police bother us,” Barrow said back. “I suppose it had to happen.”  
Bates, from down table, grumbled slightly.  
“Hopefully she'll have a simpler time of it,” he said, all these years later still not prone to jest.

“I'm sure we'll hear more of it later on,” Barrow said firmly. “When she comes back to us safe and sound.”

 

At that point, conversation stopped, for Daisy brought in the stew.  
“It smells delicious,” Phyllis offered, and truthfully it did.  
“I've made it more from the squeal than the pig,” Daisy grinned, “but at least it passes for stew today.”

“I understand rationing petrol, but why the food?” Andy said with such a wistful look the others laughed.

“And we're just starting,” Barrow said, but he put aside a political conversation for the food.  
Daisy knew exactly what would suit them all just right.

\---

Nanny made it back that evening, with a more wan expression than the jolly woman'd ever worn before.  
“They labeled me a 'B' How can they say I'm doubtful? Years and years I've worked and been given nothing but the best of references?”  
She was tired from the long day and oh, so sad.

 

“It's just the way things work. They're silly and they're frightened,” Anna said consolingly.  
They'd all gathered around her offering support when she came in through the back door.

“Come sit awhile before you face the youngsters,” Barrow suggested. “Ann has hers and Master Edward assured me he was quite capable of having a night alone.”

 

“What will it mean?” asked Daisy, bringing in something warm to drink.  
“Do you have to go back before the magistrate again?”

“No,” answered Nanny slowly. “They gave me this.”  
And she handed a sheet of paper over to Barrow.  
“Restrictions. I've rules like a child myself.”

 

Barrow nodded as he read.  
“Well, we aren't anywhere strategic, so it's not that they can think you causing trouble.  
“And you weren't planning a tour of the States, now, were you? So travel shouldn't be an issue.”

“Maps and charts? Binoculars?” Daisy frowned as she read over his shoulder.  
“I'll put the globe back, I guess, if you think it would truly matter.”  
The cook looked at Barrow in question. 

She'd put a globe on the counter first thing, and a map out at Yew Tree, too,  
expecting battle news would have them needing it like in the last war.  
“And the children play with binoculars.”

 

“But Nanny doesn't. And it's your globe not hers,” Barrow responded evenly.  
“We've certainly no cause to do things differently.”  
“Pfft. Nanny a fifth columnist and Moseley a fascist.”

And the butler huffed dramatically, drawing a line under the discussion for them all.

(For Thomas Barrow had never liked the judgment of gossips, and he certainly wasn't going to begin to do so now.)


	7. Chapter 7

(Note: major character death.)  
-  
-  
-

Even though it left her personally scarred, the matter of Nanny was swept   
into the 'forgotten' file by local residents within weeks.  
She'd not been deported like the ('C' ranked!) baker to Canada, nor interned like the  
older gent a town over who was a Nazi (they thought) for sure. 

She was just 'restricted.'  
And it was old news, no apologies given.  
Carry on.  
(And nervously, afraid to leave the estate, she did.)

 

As summer turned to fall, Downton villagers were transfixed with news of the Real German Enemy dropping bombs in blitz attacks.  
The wireless rang with it, and people could go from shop to shop never missing a story, for everyone who owned a set had it turned on.

London was under some sort of aerial siege, the likes of which they'd never seen before.  
.

And yet even with the wireless constantly chattering in the corner, at the heart of it Downton remained innocent and cloistered.  
Only a few days in, the truth had not been fully shown on any sort of newsreels to the north.  
And what the eye doesn't see is frequently not understood.

They heard it and mourned, but didn't feel the enormity of things quite yet.

Until it finally came home to everyone at the big house one morning  
with news Rosamund Painswicke had been killed.

\---

“I can't conceive of Rosamund gone,” Robert had said, blankly, coming into the sitting room after receiving word. 

“Darling, come here and sit next to me.”  
Cora put down her papers and patted the settee cushion. 

She was drowning in papers—fetes and fundraisers that needed running, board votes to be considered—but the older woman had come to realize that she wasn't irreplaceable to any of her duties, except in that of wife.  
“What did Harold say happened?”

 

“That's just it. He doesn't rightly know. They have shelters and black outs, everyone to their little burrows.  
“But when he came out and stepped over the hosepipes this morning, he saw the mess where her house had been. Just a pile of brick, really.”  
“They're working at confirming she's actually....dead.”

Cora reached over and rubbed his shoulder in small circles, the way she'd soothe a child.  
Robert looked bereft.  
He'd never much cared for his sister as a friend, but he'd loved her none the less.  
She was blood, after all. 

 

“Harold's office building was untouched, but lines are down in spots all over. That's why he called now before they knew things absolutely. Tomorrow, he might not get through."  
Robert gave her a weary smile, “But he promised he'd do what he could to take care of things.”  
"Good man, Harold."

She put her arms more fully around him. “I'm so sorry, darling. I wish there was something we could do.”  
Robert patted her hand.  
“This is more than enough, my dear,” he said, leaning close.

 

Out the window, he could see the children playing, followed closely by Nanny with a basket and their tutor reading aloud from a heavy book.  
It was bright and the leaves were golden.  
How could such peace co-exist with such destruction?

“I told Harold that he and Madeleine should come here where it's safer, but I don't think he'll do it.  
I got a right round lecture about needing to be in the city to properly do business.”  
Robert gave a small, strangled laugh.  
“Your brother is as different from you as I was from Rosamund.”

 

“Well, I'm glad you invited him, but he would know he's already welcome just as Rosamund would have done.”  
Cora let her hand drop and caught his eyes, smiling directly into his face.  
“We've always been the type of family who doesn't have to say the obvious. If Harold needs to come, he knows to come.”

She let the silence fall comfortably between them and waited him out.  
Finally, he managed.  
“I wish I could go up and make inquiries myself.”

“Robert, you will not,” Cora said emphatically, then softly she added “Even you know you can't go running into London when it's being bombed by the enemy.  
"Rosamund wouldn't expect such a thing. Why, if she were here, she'd call you foolish for the thought.”

“I know.” Robert said it sadly, already half lost in remembering some silly adventure he and his sister shared when young.  
His shoulders slumped.  
“Who would have thought that Rosamund would die in a war when I sit here unscathed in the sunshine?”

 

But in a moment the old earl straightened himself.  
“I must tell Mary, and then I'll telephone Edith. She might have someone in the city who can help things along.  
“She was always travelling there.”

And with nothing else for it, he took to the tasks, while Cora went back to her papers.  
Even in sadness there was still the call to duty.  
They'd grieve, but they'd yet carry on.

\---

“I feel bad, you know, though she rarely visited since I was young.”  
Sybbie Branson walked around the community kitchens, ordering adjustments here or there and making changes as needed.  
“Who I'm most worried about is Georgie, still at school in the south.” 

“But not in London,” Daniel said firmly, trailing at her elbow.  
He'd come for errands as usual, and as usual had stayed a bit to help.

 

“No, but not at Downton.”  
She turned and smiled up at him, steady and strong standing there.  
“Why is it I think if someone stays at Downton, they're somehow magically protected.  
You've no idea how glad I was to hear you and Andrew hadn't been called up.”

He smiled back, but then looked down, embarrassed.  
“Yet. We'll surely need to do our duty eventually.”

 

“You mustn't do something foolish and volunteer, though.”  
She turned and reached out as though to catch at his arm.  
But forcing her hand back, and keeping her tone neutral, Sybbie continued.  
“Barrow would disapprove most thoroughly. And Aunt Mary would be quite cross about the farm.”

 

“We've talked about it, you know. Out at Yew Tree. How to handle the work if they do call us up, so they'd manage.  
“But, no, Daisy would kill us before we got to the station if we volunteered. She and my uncle are of one mind on that.”

Sybbie sighed out in relief.  
“Well, that's right, then.”  
And he looked at her, noticing the flushed cheeks and the smile.

And in spite of the seven year difference in age, in spite of the difference they had in rank, Barrow smiled back.  
(Could she care? Really? )

“Yes, that's right then,” he agreed and went back, inordinately pleased, to helping her with their task.

\---.

If he sat there in the darkened room, it was almost like he could feel the quiet soothing him.  
Edward Talbot was a bit proud, but mainly the young boy was afraid.  
Last week, Henry Talbot had sent Edward and Violet souvenirs of the factory which made motors for the spitfire airplanes that sometimes flew over their house. 

It made Edward proud that his father was part of such a thing.  
(But afraid, too, since such factories were targets for the bombers.)

 

“What are you doing sitting in here, Master Edward?”  
Barrow stood at the door to Georgie's room where the young boy sat worrying, silently chewing a nail.  
“Are you feeling unwell?”

The butler set down the books he was carrying and came to stand nearby.  
Quietly he repeated himself.  
“Are you feeling unwell?”

 

Edward looked up at him and hiccupped slightly.  
His small, pale face and green eyes were like a younger image of his father.  
“Do you think they could bomb papa's factory?” he finally asked. 

Thomas sat down, made even more serious by the thought.  
Edward was too large to take into his lap, so the butler leaned next to him, shoulder to shoulder.  
“You shouldn't worry about that, Master Edward.”  
“Your father's trying very hard to be absolutely safe. We all are.”

 

Barrow tried his best to give a reassuring smile. (Though he himself felt fractured by events.)  
“It'll be fine, I'm positive  
“Why, they guard those factories most of all. Those fancy airplanes are going to win things for us, you know.”

The young boy nodded seriously, though Barrow's tone had been intentionally light.  
“Violet said papa's working hard to help. But I can't keep from thinking about great Aunt Rosamund and how the Jerries bombed them dead.  
  
“I don't want anyone else dead, Barrow.”

The butler nodded and moved to put an arm around the boy.  
“None of us do, Master Edward.”  
And they sat there together trying to find some comfort in the peace and quiet, safe from harm.


	8. Chapter 8

http://www.middlestreet.org/ww2cogsong/ww2cogsong.htm

(Note: major character death. I know. I'm sorry. This one hurts more than yesterday, for me.  
Also, a time jump, since last chapter was early fall/Sept. And this is late fall/November.)

 

-  
-  
-

 

Daisy Mason banged around the kitchen in aggravation.  
“The war won't be won or lost because I keep back a soup pot,” she grumbled to Mrs. Patmore.  
“I know. I know,” grumbled the old woman right back. “I told the twins that, but they didn't seem to want to hear. Much like their mother, those two. Stubborn.”

The scrap drive had willingly eaten through most of her tin pots, but she'd kept that one back, special, for it was all she'd been sent of her mum's when the older woman died.

 

Mrs. Patmore made her way around the kitchen, tidying a bit as she went.  
Her hair was now mostly grey with flecks of red, but she retained a fiery nature in spite of it.

“We should be ashamed of ourselves, Daisy. If it hadn't been for those spitfires, London would have been lost.”  
Daisy sighed. “I know. And I don't mind the rest of it, but I'd still like to feel like we control our own kitchen since nothing else. These pilferings.....” She shook her head and gave a dark look. 

 

For Davey and Dolly were indeed part of a brigade of children pilfering scrap where ever they found it.  
Metal was the most fun, of course, and it didn't have to mean the danger of taking a soup pot from their mum.  
Davy had found a treasure trove of old metal behind an abandoned barn one day and they'd had to call in their friends to help them as they hauled it all into the village scrap dump.

 

The WVS sent trucks for pick up.  
Lady Reading had even done a radio broadcast that past July asking everyone to save and salvage that had most of the women inspired.  
At that point, the householders had willingly dug through and cleared out most of their tin, saving back only an errant item or two.

Now November, it was more of a scavenger hunt, the collecting.  
One of the few amusements in a year gone bad.

 

“We'll have made ourselves two or three airplanes by now,” Davey enthused as he pulled one more wagon full of odds and ends to the dump.  
“And there'll always be a dustbin more to find,” Dolly giggled.  
“Do you know, mum said one of the men at the big house is off making the planes? Wouldn't that be exciting?”

 

“Not as exciting as flying them,” Davey said practically, as he stopped to scratch at a scab and pull his socks more firmly up.  
“If it goes on long enough, that's what I want to do, but da says it won't.”  
The boy huffed in exasperation, breath forming a tiny cloud.

 

“We'll just have to do our part this way, then,” his sister said agreeably, giving him a slight nudge.  
“Today's for metal, but maybe we can haul around paper next? It's always easier to find. People don't wail much if you hit them up for discarded papers; they like you. But that last old man acted like we were looters, after his rusty old bits.”

They laughed as they went up the road, having been in too many varied nooks and crannies of the countryside to let one old codger frighten them.

 

“Well, he might need the wheels for fixing the wagon, like he said,” Davey grinned.  
“You just like to collect paper in case someone throws something interesting in it to read.”

Their last week's load had included an old lady's box of love letters, surely thrown in the lot by mistake after a hasty clearing of papers from a desk.  
And with the lack of inhibition of most children, they'd saved that small bit back for an evening, reading them as a lark.

They weren't too graphic, written in an earlier era, but the fact that someone had waxed so rhapsodic about this particular old lady's beauty and charm still left them gobsmacked and giggling yet today long after they'd shredded them in.  
(Eyes like 'limpid pools'? Dolly thought last night as she batted her own  
for the mirror.)

 

“It is interesting, seeing what people have hid. Did you ever realize that your neighbors look one way and are really another way under the skin? I think it's made me like some of them better.”

Davey just made a rude sound and started to pull more quickly on.  
“We've got to get this load in first before we think about the next one. Besides, they might want us to do light bulbs or batteries. There was something about the women having a work party that Sybbie Branson said.”

 

“Miss Sybbie,” shouted Dolly as she yanked her own load to keep up.  
Davey just gave a panting laugh.  
“Haven't you heard that we're all in this together?”

“I'll believe it when the dump is closer to the big house than to the village square.”

\---

Violet Talbot and Johnny Bates were poring over a spotter's manual instead of doing their maths as they should be.  
It was a recent and much prized possession.  
The tutor wouldn't be too furious. His son was in the RAF.

 

“I think if we use the binoculars Donk has, we'd do better in our duties,” Violet proclaimed, quite serious in being properly equipped.  
“I think it's so cloudy most nights, we'd do better just by sound and eyesight,” Johnny replied back seriously. “The motors in the German planes must sound different than ours, but they don't go into that here.”  
“Silly men,” Violet agreed. “I'll have to ask.”

 

They sat with the book between them, alternately staring at the silhouette shapes and staring up at the blank ceiling, trying to memorize them fully in their mind's eye.  
“Will your mama even let you come out?” Violet asked as the minutes ticked on. 

“She will if daddy agrees.” Johnny tilted his head and looked pensive. “ Mum doesn't like wars, but she understands practical things more than most. And this is practical enough.”

“Not like those mad schemes of Clarence's.”  
Violet gave him a gimlet eyed look.  
Johnny's brother was sometimes quite too much.

 

Johnny, however, just gave an amused sort of laugh.  
“Clarey's went quite mad with all the talk of Nanny being a spy. He doesn't believe THAT, of course, but he's sure there must be some hiding around.  
“Thinks he'll overhear something critical and be able to crack the war.”  
Johnny laughed again. “No real harm to his sleuthing.”

 

They went back to memorizing, silent again for a few moments.  
Violet approved of Johnny Bates, and she didn't approve of many people, truth be told.  
So if he only rated his brother slightly off the mark, well, she'd put up with Clarence, too.  
They'd all grown up together, after all. 

And Edward did seem to enjoy Clarey, so who was she to say?  
Edward had acted somber and settled all his life.

\---

“I can't believe mum won't let us go out to gather scrap. We'd stay in the estate, after all,” Clarey Bates said, frustrated.  
He angrily kicked at a branch, then picked it up and used it to whack at the corner of a shed.  
Not too forcibly, though, for he was sensible enough not to break things.

 

“It's hard keeping track of people and spying when they won't let you off the grounds,” Edward agreed amiably, not really wanting much to spy but enjoying the notion none the less.  
“We could go see Barrow,” he suggested.

Clarey shook his head no, “If I go downstairs I'll get some sort of chore. If I need to do something, I'd rather choose my own.”

 

“Hmmm a chore,” Edward said, not getting many chores beyond books.  
“Maybe go see old Samuelson in the hot house and help him? It's too late in the year for him to be anywhere else. And he sometimes has peppermints if you do things right.”  
The peppermints, rather than the desire to accomplish a chore, lured them on.

What they didn't expect to find was the old man crying.

Crying noisily and completely in the corner, hidden (he thought) where he wouldn't be found.  
“We shouldn't go closer,” whispered Clarey. “He'll not want us to.”  
(For the boy had hidden himself, crying, and not wanting to be embarrassed as he gave way to tears.)

 

“Pfft. His friend's sick. And he must be worse, then, or he wouldn't be so sad.  
“I'd want someone to talk to, myself. Go away if you want.” And Edward went forward toward where the old man sat and, without much worry, began to pat him encouragingly.

“I've come to visit, Mr. Samuelson, and cheer you up.”  
And the pale, sad eyed boy gave his best smile as the old man used his palms to scrub at his face.

 

Clarey came nervously up beside them.  
“Tell me where the whisk is and I'll tidy and sort while you two talk,” he offered.  
Edward pointed to the corner, and kept on leaning in and murmuring to the gardener.

“We'll sit here together a while, then you can teach me about the plants, can't you, Mr. Samuelson? You said you'd tell me about that great big one last time I came.”  
And Edward, least among them, most frightened of all, shared some of his strength.

\---

And there was reason to Samuelson's fears that day.  
Ever since they'd taken the garden assistants away (almost a year ago),  
Edward Pipwick was like a clock whose mainspring had sprung. 

He'd tried to drag himself around a bit and keep things up, but he could see that nothing much would help.  
Pip was old. And he finally had to give in and accept every bit of his age.

 

The slow, nagging cough that always came with cold weather seemed an insurmountable problem this year.  
Poultices and medicines from the druggist were for naught.  
And he waved away the soups Mrs. Parker sent and the guests that tried to come cheer him up. 

“Leave me,” was all he'd say. Just “leave me alone.”

 

Sam, of course, ignored the quarreling and kept trying to get him well.  
But age and illness combined with a broken hearted sense of life's futility.  
Which was how Samuelson came to be hiding in the hothouse corner, giving way to tears.  
He could see that time was almost up, even as he jostled and encouraged Pip to rally.

 

He appreciated the sympathy of the boy, as well as of their friends.  
But he had to face the truth.

And, finally as the first snows took what was left in the garden,  
Edward Pipwick gave up the ghost and was (once again) at peace.

In a way, another casualty of war.


	9. Chapter 9

(Note: For those of you who killed off Joe after 1935--I left it open ended--  
take out your pen and replace his name as it comes. If I put in any soppy bits, I'll make them 'lift out' chapters.  
Mea culpa. If you knew the number of times I've wasted an hour writing and deleting Joe's exit--living or dead--you'd laugh.  
(I must have been angrier at the Golden Boy for not writing than I thought.) 

-  
-  
-

 

It had taken Harold Levinson all this time to get an official answer, dodging disaster  
and foolish with fatigue himself.  
There could be no funeral, but at least they knew things now for a certainty.  
Rosamund was gone.  
Given the passage of time, her memorial was almost an anti climax.

 

Still, George Crawley had come home for it, which in spite of the nature of things  
made them all a bit less sad.  
“Just three days, though, before I have to get back. We've work, you know,” the young man said, giving Barrow half a smile.  
“You must stay safe,” Barrow said in a serious tone. “Your mother worries.”

 

“More like you worry,” George scoffed, chewing a biscuit with the gusto of a young man too long away from his favorite cook.  
“Now, why would I worry?” scowled Thomas. “I know you're doing what you must. But the ladies are more delicate, you know. Even your mother.”

 

George laughed outright. “I'll take your word for it,” he quipped.  
(His mother? Delicate?)  
“Although granny and Aunt Edith looked quite done in today. I suppose it's possible they all worry, since there's war on, but I haven't got into the fight just yet.”

 

“Hopefully it will be over before you do.”  
The butler moved purposefully to set the biscuits closer and fill the young man's tea.  
They were in his office and sitting down together—not a common thing for an heir and a butler, but common enough with these two, since George had grown up secure in the knowledge of being his Barrow's 'favorite.'

 

“I do appreciate your letters, Master George, and we all enjoy hearing your news by telephone. But if those of us old enough to remember the war aren't wanting you in it, it's not because we think you're still a boy.  
“It's not to keep you under supervision.  
“It's because things get bad in war in ways no one can control.”

 

George Crawley grinned back at Barrow.  
“Not even you, Barrow? I thought you could do anything.  
Or mother? Or Donk?”  
(He's grown up feeling so safe from the world, Thomas thought sadly.)

“No, Master George. Just know that when your mother sends you back to school, she feels she's doing her duty. But we'll still all worry until you come back home again safe.”

\----

Lady Mary paced from one corner of her office to the other, too irritated to settle in and do the books.  
The lamp cast the place in light and shadow.  
It was not yet time to draw the black out drapes, but clouds and rain still clothed the place in gloom. 

 

She stopped a moment and glared out at the dripping world.  
George's visit was the absolute only bright spot in an otherwise dismal week.  
Yes, it had been a memorial not a time for frivolity, but by the end of it there were hard feelings along with Aunt Rosamund's death.  
“How could she be so mean about things? It's surely Edith's fault.”

 

On the way back to the house, the solicitor told the Crawleys that her aunt's money had not gone to Robert as expected but directly to her niece, Edith. 

It would take some time, though, with things in such a tangle back in London.  
The lawyer's own office had been hit, cards and folders everywhere being sorted by the secretaries.  
But it was definite.

 

“Papa never did anything bad to her, in spite of their differences. We had her in the house, and us to hers. Even when she disapproved of me, I didn't let her barbs make me uncivil.”  
Lady Mary paced the office yet again, as though by doing so she could relieve some of the angry energy before going back to the house and dinner. 

It was not right to show her displeasure.  
Aunt Rosamund's fortune wasn't family money, after all.

Her aunt had married Marmaduke Paineswick all those years before, in the same sort of way Mary had once considered marrying Richard Carlisle.  
(“Granny said they'd faced a ruined daughter before and managed. I heard her tell mama I'd survive.”  
“And, now, aunt Rosamund looks down on papa and gives him this slight.”)

 

But some inner voice of truth in her couldn't deny that she was mainly angry knowing the money wouldn't be there for Downton.  
Her life had been devoted to its care, after all.  
And it would be her son's future in the end.

“We struggle and work, and Edith gets another fairy tale ending just dropped in her lap. And why? Because she went for tea on the way to her publisher's?”  
“I was working. Here. I don't have time to drop everything on a whim.”

 

Again, the voice of her conscience whispered in her ear.  
“Well, even if I could, I had to steer clear thanks to Henry. Parading his tart through the south.  
“I can only school my features into pleasure at seeing him in public so often.”  
Mary's nostrils flared as she breathed out. 

Finally her pacing slowed.  
Pushing away the books for the night (and maybe two more), Mary went home to find her son and enjoy her time.  
If the world didn't have to adhere exactly to duty and expectations, well, then, neither did she.

\---

A few days later, the staff gathered for Edward Pipwick's funeral.  
It was a small group, what with Pip's own men gone off to fight.  
But the remaining staff still honored him, knowing the old man well through many years. 

And beside herself with tears, Beryl Patmore leaned on Elsie Hughes as they  
remembered back to the beginning of things.  
(Yes, even the elderly were once young and free and enmeshed in life's dramas!)  
Their kind words, more than the sermon, made the group feel that Pipwick was properly laid to rest.

 

Later, hunched around a bottle passed back and forth, the men gave their own sort of eulogies.  
While playing cards.

“Do you remember when Pip almost fell off the roof fixing the gatehouse for the Moseleys?”  
Bates, who had wandered down That day just in time for the shouts, gave a wry grin.  
“Anna always said he was the kindest man she knew, though he acted like a curmudgeon.”  
(His chair scraped as he leaned back to stretch his leg, for John was himself now well up in years.)

Jimmy snorted softly, shuffling.  
Yes, Pip had chewed his arse frequently enough to earn the moniker 'curmudgeon.'  
But they'd also stood shoulder to shoulder in a couple of glorious pub fights, so Jimmy considered the old fool a friend.  
(But not wanting to look soft or soppy, Kent just silently dealt.)

 

“Planted some sort of trees for Phyllis down there,” remarked Barrow. “Like the legend, he said--her name, since it meant green, but that they bloomed too--because she was such a blooming, lovely girl.”

Thomas took a sip and chuckled. “Phyllis liked to die of embarrassment and pleasure all in one.”  
“Our own personal Cyrano.”  
(He looked through his cards and the grin turned to a frown before he wiped his face blank.)

 

“Gave us a rose bush he'd rooted that we've got outside our door even today,” Bates agreed seriously. “That's the way with these gardeners. They know how to please women.”  
(And John tipped his mug in a toast of sorts to Samuelson, then picked up his own cards to look through.)

 

Andy laughed...then turned red...then looked around and held the chuckle in.  
(For once, he knew more than either Barrow or Bates? Amazing.  
Only Joe seemed to return his smile.)

  


However, when his gaze fell on Sam, Andy lost his glee.  
Poor old fellow.  
His world had been cut in half.

 

“I remember how you both helped me when I didn't know one end of a shovel from the other. Made it so I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of Mr. Mason at the start of things.  
“Pip was a kind old man, he was. Knew things. And was giving.”  
Andy turned red as he fumbled through his emotions.  
But Samuelson smiled and nodded his thanks.

 

However, the old gardener knew the tone had grown too serious.  
Pip wouldn't want anything like this.  
So Sam took a deep breath and gathered his strength.

 

“I remember,” he said (banging a fist down and making the glasses jump)  
“All the times he drank you youngsters under the table. I suppose I'll have to take on that task now myself.”

And they raised another glass to Pip, toasting him.  
Before they placed their bets.


	10. Chapter 10

-  
-  
-  
Christmas shouldn't be a time for call ups, but the army didn't deal in “shoulds.”  
So it was that the third week in December, 1940 Daniel Barrow received his notice to report.   
A travel warrant for his journey was enclosed.  


“The war is mainly in the air. I'll be fine on the ground,” Danny said as Daisy stood, teary eyed.  
She'd long before put up a map at home to track announcements as they came,  
but looking at it, now, she sighed.

“Who knows what battles they'll have you in, or where.”  
(Also thinking “they drop things from the air ONTO the ground, you daft man, don't you think I know?”)  
Behind her, Andy knocked slush off his boots and came in to join them.  
He wrapped the small woman in a tight hug. 

 

Daisy'd known what to expect when the envelope came, incorrectly addressed, to the Abbey.  
(She'd really truly known what would happen on that first announcement of war, just not when the men would go.)  
“I should have burnt it, I should, or let your uncle send it back.”

Across the front of the flimsy, Thomas had written 'Not residing here. Return to sender' in shaky script quite unlike his usual neat hand.  
“And he would have been punished by the constable, and you, and I still would have gone to war,” Danny said, as he passed by Andy to pinch a bite off the counter before they sat down for real.  
Then the two of them went to wash before dinner, so as to present a decent face to the rest. 

 

Daisy put the finishing touches on things, though a few salty tears added some seasoning before the men returned clean.  
Looking at them, again, she found her voice. “You mustn't be like Andy's brother, the fool.”  
“The hero. Fought at Dunkirk, he did,” Andy protested, proud of his oldest sibling, though sad he was now gone.

Daisy shook her head at him. “Don't be a hero and die, Danny. Keep your head down and come back safe.”  
Then, she turned to call in the children, and her sad talk had to be replaced by bravery, for putting on a good face had become second nature now.

\---

Barrow, of course, was holding onto his servant's blank expression with every bit of his strength.  
He'd come to love Daniel, though he'd not known him growing up.  
But it was like the end of a drought, really, this having family when the boy finally appeared.  
And now it was like that fundamental right was endangered once more.

“We heard about your nephew being called away from Yew Tree,” Lady Mary said, quietly over the other dinner conversation.  
“You must be so proud of him, Barrow.”  
(For what else could she say? They all knew what other emotions might lurk behind their sense of pride. They'd been through this before, after all.)

“Yes, my lady,” the butler managed.

From down the table, Miss Sybbie was having a conspicuous lack of appetite.  
“I don't know how we'll get on without him,” she said, expression careful but eyes glistening.  
“He's important to the kitchen, you know,” she added by way of explanation to her aunt and grandmother.

 

“Too many boys are being called up, and for what?” Tom Branson began.  
“To keep us safe from invasion,” Lord Grantham replied quietly, used to his son in law now. “Who would have thought this Hitler chap would have become so powerful that Europe would leave us in this position?”  
They nodded. 

Cora tried her best to turn the conversation to the holidays, because no matter what dark thing happened in the world, dinner conversation should be kept light.

\---

But even the holidays, once there, weren't a guaranteed topic of security and light.

Last Christmas had been bitterly cold, but people reacted to the declaration of war by making it one “last great party.”  
This year, everyone's mood had settled into a more serious vein. 

True, there were still toys in the shop windows. Not everything yet had gone into war productions, it seemed.  
But the toys all appeared to have a certain disquieting military theme.  
Jigsaws, when finished, showed Englishmen triumphantly holding Germans who'd surrendered.  
Pop guns and even mock bombs made a satisfyingly loud sound, but wore on the nerves of the adults who'd heard news of the destructiveness of the real thing. 

The girls at school had a club to practice first aid with their dolls.  
And on Christmas lists this year were VAD or nurse uniforms, so that the process could be done with the 'proper air.' 

 

At the big house, the tree went up in the great hall as always.  
But it was a different looking tree for all of that.  
No electric lights were on the boughs, nor tinsel, in consideration of wartime priorities.  
(The tenants still came in for a toast and a bite, and the Crawleys didn't want to set the wrong example for their guests.) 

But the same ornaments came out, for they were old and to be expected, really.  
(And Sybbie was told, most severely, that if anyone mentioned the possibility of such becoming part of some scrap collection, that person would eat by herself.)  
Garlands became a point of hot debate, but Lady Grantham came down on the side of austerity, since garlands took either wire or twine.  
Lady Mary quite lost that fight to her mother and niece and was still in a pet about it the day Christmas actually came.

 

“The scent isn't even right,” she complained under her voice to Tom as they stood in the great hall.  
“Pine? That hasn't been changed by your PM,” he looked at her, confused.

“No candles, so few flowers, and something spicy that's now wanting,” Mary said with an actual sniff as though to find the answer on the air.  
“I don't know what the staff normally does that couldn't be done, but there's just something missing in the scent of things that makes me feel quite blue.”

“Well, I wouldn't let Barrow hear you. He's been trying very hard to get everything as bright and cheerful as possible on his own.”  
Mary nodded in agreement.  
She knew that Barrow, for all of his professionalism, was struggling with his nephew's call up.

 

Further, Mary told him that come spring, Andrew would have to move more full time out to the farm at Yew Tree.  
Mr. Mason was far too frail to handle things alone, and soon the footman would spend most of his time helping out with that.  
Of course, this left them with no footmen, though she'd told the butler to hire more women from the village as he could.

They'd made do before, of course.  
But how disappointingly gloomy the prospect was, coming at the holidays.

At least the children were still happy.  
Mary and Tom stood smiling at them from the corner.

 

Edward received a tactical game called GHQ, and Violet some birding books with color plates.  
(And if the two were destined to trade them with each other within the month, it still worked well.)  
Fanciest of all, an elaborate set of puppets had come as though by miracle from their aunt Edith.  
(Punch and Judy could now attack the enemy with the aid of a valiant Tommy, should the  
young people wish to act such a thing out. Where had she found them?)

The hand cranked Victrola was brought down from the attic and ended up being the biggest hit, since it was old enough to be novel, but still quite useful to play.  
With great effort, Sybbie gamely overcome her own low mood to teach her cousins to dance.  
Of course, the younger ones didn't notice if the adults weren't quite as in the spirit as years past. 

 

“I wish we could go back to that age,” Lady Mary whispered in a rare fit of sentiment.  
“But then I wouldn't be here. I'd be home,” Tom said, quietly.  
“Why, I forgot for a moment,” Mary said.  
Then, “And you are home.”

Sybbie, seeing them smiling, came over to give them both a hug.  
“Happy Christmas, Aunt Mary. Happy Christmas, daddy.”  
And they tried to believe, just for a few temporary moments, that it was.

–

Meanwhile, Barrow wasn't worried only about his nephew or the replacement of Andy by some maid.  
Although certainly those topics were heavy, horrid weights upon his mind.

He was also dealing with news, starting two days before Christmas, of heavy air raids on Manchester.  
His mother was there, his sister and her husband, too.  
Damn this war.


	11. Chapter 11

(Note: The first half of this chapter overlaps the timeline from the previous chapter.)  
-  
-  
-

Daniel Barrow's holiday, if you could call it that, had begun almost as soon as his letter came the week before.  
With a sense of ingenuity and 'make do' the Parkers and the Masons created him  
a special dinner with presents finished on the fly.  
Besides themselves, they still had in billet a set of ornery youngsters, who needed the time for goodbyes (understanding them more than most.)

 

“I don't know how to say happy Christmas when it's not yet here,” Danny'd said with a blush when he came in to see their smiling faces crowded round the table.  
“You come give me a kiss for a start,” called Beryl Patmore,  
who'd added a sprig of the dooryard's holly to her hair for a special, festive touch.

“And then me,” echoed Daisy. (With Andy teasing “ 'ey, now” in mocking tones.)

 

Yes, they'd done their best to push off worries.  
And the call up didn't mean leaving the very next day, so Daniel sat to write a note to his mother, still without a telephone.  
“I'll come Christmas on my trip to report. It's to South Devon the next week, so I can't stay but a day or two.  
“Want to see you both, though, before I go wherever it is they send.”

 

Daniel was duty bound to report 5 January fit to begin training, which gave him a bit of a wiggle to say his goodbyes.  
But then, came the raids.

Manchester had been hit before, true, but this was something more powerful.  
The Germans swept in and hit from the night of the 22nd through Christmas eve, dropping more explosives and incendiaries than before.

 

Daisy Parker listened to the wireless on and off all day as they worked at the big house, Thomas Barrow drifting in and out between his tasks.  
A report of Manchester Piccadilly destroyed from incendiaries and explosives made the butler flinch, for he knew that area well.

Indeed, it seemed to strike at the very memories of his childhood, these things told in bland tones.  
(And while it wasn't a happy childhood, not at all, Thomas still didn't want it destroyed by German bombs)

 

Meanwhile, Danny, working outside, didn't cling to the reports.  
He got them by way of Daisy, who tried to not upset him too much.  
But he still got the general picture all too well.  
“I don't even know if mum got my letter,” Danny said, pacing the worn linoleum of the kitchen. “I sent it before things started, but who knows if it got delivered or destroyed.”

And what should he be doing about travel?  
Daisy settled that question emphatically.  
“You aren't to be going be able to travel until after Christmas Day, Danny. You can't go while they're under the gun.”

 

Of course, it was a wise choice.  
The train and bus stations both were hit, and residents of Manchester who wished to leave had a roundabout way of things.  
Which is why it took until the day after Christmas for Margaret Barrow, herself, to appear.

\---

“He's here, in't he?” she said abruptly when Mrs. Patmore opened the door.  
(A conversation begun in the middle, which left Beryl momentarily stunned.)

Behind her, a softly smiling Mrs. Hughes nodded hello.  
“Mrs. Barrow?” Beryl guessed after a second, for the woman bore a startling resemblance to both her son and brother, though more batted about by life than they showed.

 

“Well, are you going to let us come in?” Mrs. Hughes said, then, looking at Mrs. Patmore's flummoxed expression with something akin to glee.  
“I've never seen the like, Mrs. Patmore. Where're your manners?” she teased.  
And Beryl quirked a grin, herself. as she moved to let them pass.

 

“I'm beside myself, come in.”  
Then, “yes, he's still here, though you'd almost missed him, going over your way. He was to leave this afternoon.”

“Bertie!” Mrs. Patmore yelled, with some emphasis (for Mr. Mason had grown deaf as a post.)  
“Bertie! Run get Daniel!”  
“What?” the old man asked, coming in to see what was the matter.  
“Daniel! We've a visitor!”

 

Mason, wizened yet still pert enough, pulled at his forelock and smiled.  
“Pleased to see you!” he managed, eyes twinkling.  
Then to his wife, “I'll go get him now!”  
And, utterly delighted, he made for the door. 

“If you'd have a seat, I'll get us something warm to drink,” Mrs. Patmore said, still finding herself grinning quite foolishly.  
(Good heavens, do they all have eyes and cheekbones like that?)  
Margaret, seeing Elsie Hughes settling herself, followed suit. “Thank you, I don't want to be a bother.”

 

“Pish, go on with your company manners. It's a real pleasure to see your face.”  
And as she went to the kitchen, Beryl threw Mrs. Hughes an actual wink.

 

Before she could even come in with the tray, Daniel was there, smelling of cold air and hay, yanking off gloves and hat, rushing through to where his mother sat.  
The young man came so quickly on that Margaret barely had time to half rise before he swung her up in a hug.  
“Mum” was all they could hear of it, though there was a muffled expression of joyous greeting issued somewhere into her neck as he buried his face there.

 

“Now, boy,” Margaret tutted at him, but it must be said her grip was almost as fierce.  
“Now, Daniel, lad, behave.”  
And after a moment when he released her, she touched her palm to his face and smiled.  
“And here's tea, such as it is,” Mrs. Patmore said, helping to break into the moment. 

Daniel hadn't realized how much worry he'd boxed up into his mind until then when he finally saw his mother there, alive.

 

“They don't want people in or out at all, no travelling officially,” Margaret Barrow explained as she sipped the warm drink thankfully. “And I knew I'd not get to see you fore you went.”  
“Then how'd you manage it?” Mrs. Patmore prompted, earning her a raised eyebrow and a smirk so familiar, she almost burst out.

“There are ways and then there are ways,” Margaret said in a knowing tone.  
“But your gran couldn't come in such a rumpus, being old,  
so I'll have to make a short time feel like long and then get back.”

 

Daniel just sat there, still smiling.  
The horsehair of the old sofa scratched under his fingers, and the wind rattled the panes, but nothing felt quite real yet—his mother sitting, safe, right there.

Of the family, she'd always been a canny one,  
though she'd lost more battles than deserved.  
“I have to be down by next week, but that gives us some time,” Danny said, his voice half strangled still.

 

“And Thomas will want to see you,” Mrs. Hughes prompted, calmly organizing things as always was her role. 

Now, it was only because Margaret Barrow didn't want to inconvenience or embarrass Thomas that the former housekeeper was involved at all.  
She'd come with a pittance in her pocket, but still had pride enough to pay her way for a place to scrub up once she'd made the village.

The B&B full, Annie had--by habit--directed the stranger on to Hughes.  
And, of course, the older woman had immediately picked up on the story of Margaret's brother, a butler at the Abbey.  
Which led to her to trail along.

 

“Thomas will be so glad to hear you've all survived the attacks. He's been quite tied to the wireless, Daisy said. They're just calling you a 'northern city.'”  
Mrs. Patmore excused herself, then, to go to the telephone.  
While Elsie had seen fit to spring a surprise upon them, Beryl thought it better-- given big house ways-- to make a call ahead.

Besides, Margaret and Daniel had hours of catching up to do. Better let Thomas and the others know now, even if the visit came later.

\---

“I'm so thankful for it, really, truly I am,” Daisy said,  
face glowing with her gladness. 

The cook had sent a maid up to fetch Mr. Barrow down from checking the luncheon tables.  
Almost got scolded when she'd pushed him in the office where they'd be alone.  
(For this wasn't a message of casual import, not something fit for the hallway.)

Then he'd seen the joy in Daisy's eyes and listened as she told him the news.

 

In front of her, Thomas landed heavily in his chair and closed his eyes.  
And the ticking of clocks filled the space between them, but it didn't bother Daisy.  
She just sat there smiling, watching Thomas's face as it somewhat relaxed.

(A bit of grey in his hair, she thought. More so each year. But then, I've a bit, too, now.)  
Daisy let him rest for a few, then stood up.  
Duties still called.

 

“So we'll not be lazy, letting them upstairs starve, right? I've put a lot of effort into that government rationed mystery meal.”  
And she laid a rough hand on his shoulder as he looked up.  
They shared a smile.  
Knowing each other so well.

 

“No, Mrs. Parker. We can't let the upstairs be delayed. I'll be right there.”  
And Daisy nodded, once, then left him alone.


	12. Chapter 12

-  
-  
-  
“They have me going to South Devon as a fill in. They've been in Llandudno before this, reforming.  
“I've got to have some sort of Vickers training, but they didn't say what.”  
Daniel stood talking to Sybbie Branson in the small snowy yard, behind the kitchen's back door.

His mum had gone safely back toward home, and now he had this final goodbye to make.

 

Sybbie had not been happy at his call up, obviously, and she'd heard it almost first thing.  
But he still wanted her to know he hadn't been in any hurry to go.

He still wanted to talk to her face to face, wanted...wanted...  
wasn't sure what he could even hope to want, really.  
Still, he stood there saying goodbye now.

 

“And you'll write to me, and tell me where you're at?” the young woman asked, looking up at him from under her lashes.  
A few flakes of snow drifted down and landed on her pink cheeks.  
(A dusting like sugar. Sweet, like sugar, she was.)

 

“If you'd want me to. It would please me knowing you'd find it in any way of interest.”  
Danny stood there looking directly down at her.  
He had moved close without even thinking, so close that he could touch her if he tried.  
(Oh, to be so bold as to try.)

He swallowed nervously.  
“Would you write me back, maybe?”

 

And she looked up, direct gaze meeting direct gaze.  
“Of course I will.”  
What beautiful blue eyes she has, Danny thought losing himself in them for a moment.  
They sparkle like lake water in summer. 

 

Why, he seems to see right through to what I'm thinking, Sybbie thought, then flushed hotly as she felt the embarrassment of what her thoughts would reveal.

“Of course I will,” she said again emphatically. “I'll write you and tell you all the little things we're doing.”  
Sybbie smiled and her dimples enchanted the young man.  
“Very boring, perhaps, but still 'our bit' to help you warriors on the line.”

 

Daniel tilted his head back as he laughed, the delighted sound bursting out of him.  
And without even realizing, they started walking along the fence row side by side.  
“As though farmers are really warriors. But I'm sure we'll do our best.”

“You don't know, then, where you're going after Devon? Truly? You aren't just hiding things?”  
Sybbie dared take his arm then, her mittened touch light on his elbow as she leaned in.  
“Don't hide things, if you are.”

 

“I promise I'll tell you as much as the censors allow,” Daniel said seriously, his grey eyes again flicking down over her face and finding her totally beautiful.  
“Don't believe everything Lord Haw Haw says, remember. Nor even the BBC. We're better than the first makes us, and not quite so valiant as the last.”

“And you won't rush to be a hero? You'll at least try to be safe?”  
Sybbie's hand squeezed him lightly.

“You sound like Daisy when you say that. And here I though the WVS was all for heroes and sacrifice.”

 

“I wouldn't want the sacrifice if it was you,” Sybbie dared say, then felt a welter of confusing feeling take control of her mind.  
She could feel herself moving to step in front of him  
until finally on tiptoe she gave him a kiss.

 

Pulling back as though shocked, they both stood wide eyed,  
then smiling, then laughing.  
“Well, Miss Sybbie,” Daniel said, finally taking courage. “It's worth facing gunfire alone to earn such as that.”


	13. Chapter 13

-  
-  
-  
It was blustery outside as February started, winter refusing to let loose his angry grip.  
At Brancaster, though, the fires were keeping any discomfort at bay, and Marigold Pelham was admiring a new outfit she'd had made.  
The first of the moneys from London had finally come through.

 

Marigold had been pleased—more pleased than her parents even—when she'd heard of her mother's inheritance.  
She could hold both her sorrow over her great aunt, and her pleasure over the money separately, but at the same time, in her mind.

Money had been tight recently at Brancaster, even if her parents wouldn't have burdened Marigold with the worry of it.  
Still, the girl knew.  
And it had weighed on her, the envy that she felt for her cousins who had everything.

 

What would it feel like?   
To live in a home you weren't threatened by bills with leaving?  
And even more so, what would it feel like  
To live in a home with your real parents?   
To really feel like your grandparents were truly yours?

 

No, they'd tried to shelter her from worries about losing Brancaster.   
Just as they'd always sheltered her by calling her their daughter.  
But Marigold had her own mind.

She turned slightly back and forth in front of the mirror, watching the lazy swirl of the new skirts.  
Perfect.  
At least that much was in hand correctly. 

 

Money might not answer all her doubts, but it definitely would be an improvement.  
And now that she was eighteen, she'd have the pick of RAF officers for companions.  
Nice things, nice dates.

Why, one of the young fly boys at the airfield had already caught her eye.   
Charles.   
Quite handsome. 

 

She was very sorry about Great Aunt Rosamund.   
Marigold had truly liked the old duck.   
But she was also grateful to know that they'd at least hang on to the only home she'd ever come to know.

“Thank you, Sarah,” she said, nodding the maid out with the last touches finished.   
And smoothing her dress more firmly down, Marigold went to dinner at last, satisfied


	14. Chapter 14

(Note: If Joe is dead in your head canon, lift this out. If he's alive, read on. I thought the 'older' couples might need a turn, next gen story or not. February, maybe Valentines, 1941.)  
-  
-  
-

 

A brief thaw left the woods dripping and gave them all a sense of reprieve.  
Temporarily, at least, it was as messy and muddy as it would be come spring time.  
The path to the gamekeeper's cottage left Thomas's shoes in such a state that he almost couldn't bear to walk down.  
Almost. (Well, not really.)

 

In spite of ARP meetings, in spite of Andy being taken for the farm, in spite of everything, Thomas had tried to hold onto his half days.  
True, that didn't always happen.  
But he still made it his priority.  
So today he went quickly down the path to the cottage, quite thankful in spite of the mess.

 

“You're a sight for sore eyes,” Joe greeted him, standing in the yard, feed bucket in hand.  
“More a sight, but I'm here,” Thomas smiled at him, and with a quick glance over his shoulder came in for a greeting kiss. 

“Trees. Trees. And more trees,” Joe said lightly. Thomas would never get over his fear that anyone know they were together.  
(Which was wise, Joe agreed, though there were now at least two people who did.)

And putting the bucket down, Joe went in for a more satisfactory hello.  
A few breathless seconds later, they stood grinning inches apart. 

 

“I'll finish this and be in,” Joe said nonchalantly.  
They were a stable old couple now.  
No worries. No hurries. Not really.

“I might just be inside then,” Thomas said, turning.  
He'd at least get the fire stirred up, knowing Joe would have the food well in hand.  
“And I might just see you there, then.” Joe threw over his shoulder as he went.

 

Soon the fire crackled in the front room, and Thomas stood by the window.  
Eventually they'd have to draw the black outs, but in the meantime, he'd let the sunlight filter in.  
So quiet here. So peaceful.  
And through the years so distinctly “Theirs.”

 

Thomas hummed softly under his breath as he moved from the fire.  
Fetching dishes, he'd set the table in no time at all. 

“So what have you heard from the youngsters?”  
Joe called as he passed by to wash up.

 

“Daniel expects they'll be posted somewhere cold. He says the things they've been issued speaks more of snow and boredom than hot battle, so I suppose I should be relieved.”  
Joe came by, rubbing a hand across Thomas's shoulder as he passed.  
“But you're still being an old granny and worrying anyway?”

Thomas smirked as Joe ducked back out with some food.  
“As though you aren't. We both know there's no control where they send you.  
“A good posting and I'd have been behind the lines in a safe hospital instead of the trenches. A good posting and you would have been training men for battle, rather than leading them in that meat grinder Somme.”

Joe ducked back into the kitchen for another dish he'd left warming in the oven.  
Talk of battle was something they'd both do best to avoid.  
But, still, Thomas needed to talk about Danny some. And Joe would give him the comfort of listening since he could.

\---

Out at Yew Tree farm, the children had all been corralled into the truck and taken to the cinema.  
Jimmy'd told the Masons he'd get them safely in through the back, and the old couple had gone along to 'chaperone.'  
(Though most likely they'd laugh the longest and loudest at whatever comedy came their way.)

Andy stayed behind to do the chores that couldn't be finished as the afternoon was waning away.  
Then he'd gone back inside to surprise Daisy, by having everything cleaned up and neat.  
By 'farm time' it was late afternoon, the animals' bellies never changed, but by the new government time it was quite late.  
And Daisy would soon be home. 

 

“And how are you this evening, Mrs. Parker?” he asked, grinning, as the dusk was just falling in.  
“Quite fine, to be sure, Mr. Parker,” she dimpled and came sashaying past.  
The radio was playing some music. (No war, for a miracle, just this once.)

And Andy soon had her dancing across the linoleum, laughing at the freedom of childlessness and an empty house.  
(Though a sadness was still in the corners of their minds.)

 

As the music slowed and they came closer, she whispered her concern in his ear.  
“I do wish you were an old man now.”  
Andy laughed.  
“No, I do wish you were older than me at least. Then you wouldn't be fit to call up.”

“Don't borrow worries, Daisy girl,” he whispered back.  
“We'll have our night out here at home. You'll be amazed at my wonderful dinner.  
“Thanks to Mrs. Patmore's cooking, of course.”  
(She laughed softly into his chest, nuzzling a bit there.)  
“Then we'll dance some more if they leave on the music. And enjoy ourselves thoroughly before the family comes home.”

And for Yew Tree, that was a stellar evening of romance, indeed.

\---

Later as the Bates boys went to their bedrooms, Anna and John stepped into the garden for fresh air.  
It was too cold to quite call spring yet.  
But the feel of the wind had changed enough to give everyone a hint of hope. 

Soon the herbs would green up. Soon there'd be strawberries and flowers.  
“I can't wait for the earth to stir up again,” Anna said.  
But what she really wanted was for everything to turn back pleasant and bright. 

“Soon, love, soon,” John said softly.  
He still adored her with all his heart.  
And he wished he could be a dashing young soldier again.  
So he could win her with his gallantry. 

But he knew that she loved him as he was, and was very thankful for it all.  
“I love you very much, Mrs. Bates. Have I told you that recently?”  
“Why, yes you have, Mr. Bates. But you can say it as often as you like.”

And they went in, happily, to bed.


	15. Chapter 15

-  
-  
-  
Over the next months, the young ladies of Downton Abbey learned quite a few new lessons their tutors had failed to teach.  
For instance, Sybbie became extremely knowledgeable on Vickers Machine guns, which at first amused and then alarmed her father.  
(He knew some boy must be the cause, but which boy he hadn't sussed out.)

 

Daniel's training was going smoothly, and his regiment would be restationed later that month. The others were old hands, he'd told her reassuringly in letters, having come back from Dunkirk already.  
Of course he didn't mention that they'd lost some of their best men and had reformed with new ones like himself—so there were experienced survivors, yes, but that meant they'd been 'shadowed' by the war.

 

Meanwhile, Violet had the observer manual so well memorized that she'd finally petitioned her grandmother to allow her to be a junior member in the WVS.  
Violet was fifteen, after all, and they needed people to sit and scan the skies. 

That they did.

January 1941 saw an intense bombing of English cities with valuable sites,  
especially those with port access, since Hitler felt that such actions would supplement the German naval war.  
Casualty reports had peaked, then fallen as the madman had to back down on his 'Operation SeaLion.'  
(He perceived the threat in Italy, as well as North Africa, and by spring placed his priorities there.)

 

Still, the bombings left the inhabitants knowing that death could come to ordinary people from the air.  
So after much debate, Cora and Mary had allowed Violet to take to a room in the tower,  
from which she could safely view the countryside as she pleased.  
Johnny Bates was even occasionally given permission to join.

 

Even now in March, the two found it chilly in their spotters location, what with  
no fire allowed in a room with uncovered windows.  
Of course they knew that other observers had it worse, posted in fields far and wide.  
So Violet was well satisfied with both the arrangement and the task.

 

“People don't understand how important it is to keep a watch for not just bombers, but parachutists,” she told Johnny quietly one night as they stared around the dark sky.

“Well, we've a job they usually give to grown folks, so they must take it—and us—seriously,” Johnny replied peacefully. 

Mrs. Parker had filled them a small sack of snacks which drew his attention.  
Since rationing had started, growing to encompass more and more this past year, any sort of well made food was a treat, and Daisy always found a way to make things tasty.

 

An airplane went over and the two snapped to attention.  
Violet had her own binoculars now, along with the borrowed pair of Donk's used by Johnny.  
“Ours,” she chirped, first to identify.  
“Yes,” he agreed amiably.  
The plane moved indolently past, an outline against the stars.

 

They filled the time between doing times tables or reciting poems, interesting enough to stay awake.  
Sometimes they'd gossip about the household, since between them they had access to everything that went on.  
(Violet called it 'conversing,' but it amounted to the same.)

They'd barely started before turning there this Friday night.  
“George is awfully angry mama is making him finish school before he volunteers,” Violet offered. “One more year.”

 

“I heard Mr. Barrow call his friend a 'daft bugger' for trying to sign up,” Johnny laughed.  
Violet didn't even pause at the curse. “Why ever would he do that?”  
Johnny smiled approvingly. She was a good friend to him, as girls went.

“It's that Jimmy fellow who visits sometimes. He kept saying he wanted to fight since they'd killed his father last time. Tried to sign up when he didn't get the call, but they're saying he's too old.”  
The two young people mulled on that.  
Losing a parent would be a serious reason for revenge, even if patriotism didn't call. 

 

A plane went over.  
“Ours,” called Johnny first.  
“Ours,” Violet almost overlapped, but then. “You got that one.”

Violet wanted to tell Johnny about the letters she'd found, letters between Barrow's nephew and Sybbie.  
But somehow it seemed almost too large a thing to share.  
Sybbie couldn't actually ever marry someone like that, without any social standing at all.  
Why, it would be as bad as her marrying Johnny.

 

She tilted her head and stared at him, analyzing.  
“What?” the boy said with a grin.  
Violet's moods and attitudes were a wonderful thing to behold.

“I can't marry you,” Violet said, without thinking.  
“Didn't ask you,” he returned calmly back. He riffled through the sack for more food,  
and split the last biscuit between the two. “What brought that on? Gone soft or something?”

 

“Nothing,” she returned, a bit irritated.  
It was one thing for her to realize he wasn't good enough for her, but quite another for him to seem not to care.  
They scanned the sky for a long moment, the silence weighing heavily. 

“You're not that bad. ..It's not that,” Johnny finally said. “But I know you have to marry someone rich enough to buy all those dresses and frippery.”

The last bit ended on a teasing tone, which would have surely caused a thorough and caustic dressing down by his friend. 

 

If not for the planes suddenly there.  
“Not ours,” they yelled as one.  
“Count them, quick, and we'll go phone,” Violet bossed, doing the same herself.  
“To the south of us, flying from the east to west.”

“Golly, that's a swarm,” Johnny muttered, using a pencil to make notes in the dark that hopefully would be legible once downstairs.  
Off they raced.

\---

The Leeds blitz in March, 1941 could be felt as far away as Downton, a rumbling in the earth beneath the feet of anyone who happened to be awake in the night.  
The city had the 31st to defend them as well as anti aircraft guns of their own.  
Further, a fighter squadron from RAF Church Fenton went up, and Junkers Ju-88 and Dornier DO-17 planes were shot down.

But even with this turn out, the incendiaries did severe damage, especially when followed by the blows of heavy explosives.  
People scrambled for shelter and 100 houses blew or burned, 1000 damaged. Public buildings also caught a share of the destructiveness.  
And when it was done, 65 were dead.

 

From Leeds. 

A town Downton people all knew well.  
Of course, the censors kept the details off of the wireless.  
But they heard the story, anyway, word going out from person to person, village to village, until it got to them.  
And Downton was appalled that this, called 'only' a quarter blitz, should damage things so close by.

\---

“It was a startling thing,” Sybbie wrote to Daniel.  
I know you've heard and seen much worse, undoubtedly, and that your own town was hit back before you left.  
But this seemed personal quite far and wide around here.”

“No one is saying much of anything, but everyone seems determined to make things that much more 'ordinary.'  
People are making sure to go about absolutely every little bit of every little day.  
As though keeping to their schedule in spite of the danger is one more way to stick a thumb in Herr Hitler's eye.  
Sometimes I laugh at our local obstinance, though mainly I admire the people of our village.”

“And my grandfather, you would have enjoyed his outrage. They bombed the museum, you see, and hit some sort of mummy.  
He was quite in a tear about it all, saying only Germans would be so uncouth as to try to kill the poor man twice.”

“I hope they won't be so thorough in your part of the world. I hope that they skip you completely over.  
Do tell me when you've moved and where, if you can.”

“And until then I remain,

Affectionately yours,  
Sybil


	16. Chapter 16

-  
-  
-  
Edith's flyboys had done quite well as the Germans tried their attacks.  
The problem was that every time they came back, you were immediately faced with who was there and who was not.  
And there were losses, to be sure. 

But Edith, and now Marigold, worked at the canteen, helping where they could to buck the boys up as time wore on.  
Marigold, of course, had a different view of things than her mother.  
While Edith had dealt with soldiers in the past war, and always could separate that willingness to help from any personal interests,  
her daughter was much too young to play that part.

 

Marigold at eighteen had been brought up without a sister beating some of the sense of privilege out of her.  
And she was interesting. Men flocked to her.  
She had self confidence and even a sort of unconventional beauty.  
No, Marigold at eighteen was not like Edith at all. 

 

“On one hand, I'm glad to see that we won't have any trouble with her getting proposed to,” Edith joked to her husband one night as they were lying in bed.  
“On the other, I feel like I have to constantly be on guard for her. These modern girls are quite different in their attitudes than I ever was.”

 

“She's a wonderful girl, with a wonderful mother,” Bertie said soothingly.  
“It's the young men we can't trust.”  
He smiled softly. “We'll have to put bells on them, like you do cats on the prowl.”

Edith turned to him with a kiss.  
“Don't be silly. Though I will say I've thought of just locking her completely up at home. Which would put me back to worrying she'd find a husband.”

 

“Are these nice men, though, these officers?”  
Bertie looked at his wife seriously. “You've always seemed to think they're from good families before.”  
“Yes, they're nice boys, but I want the best one possible for Marigold,” Edith said back to him. “Perhaps I need to talk to mama about how she screened Mary's beaux.  
It's just not the problem I ever thought we'd have.”

\---

Thomas Barrow had a problem he never thought he'd have.  
In delivering the household mail, he'd noticed that Miss Sybbie was receiving letters.  
Frequent letters.  
Addressed in his nephew's handwriting.

Barrow knew that writing well, since he and Daisy shared their notes back and forth, joyous that Daniel was all right.  
But writing to Miss Sybbie?

 

Worse, as the person who carried the mail to the post office, Barrow had taken the time now to notice there was outgoing mail from Miss Sybbie.  
Also frequent. Heavy envelopes.  
And she didn't seem to be making it public among the family.

If he asked her about it, he knew she'd just say they were friends, which they probably were.  
But was that all?  
Worse, if he asked her about it and she said it was more, would he have to betray her confidence?  
(Could he even do such a thing?)

 

Barrow's head spun.  
Would it be better to mention the matter to Mr. Branson now, before any confidence was made?  
Arrange that he saw the thing for himself?

His loyalties to the girl and to the family were in conflict.  
And this was not something Barrow had thought to face. 

Then there was loyalty to his own blood nephew.  
(Although, frankly, the butler had known Miss Sybbie longer and best.)  
His mind again took a sickening tilt.

 

Not knowing what to do, Mr. Barrow sat in the nursery with the baby.  
How easy they were at this age, he thought.

His namesake grabbed hold of his finger and gabbled incoherently.  
And having no answers to any true problems, the butler just rocked there  
until the boy peacefully fell asleep.


	17. Chapter 17

-  
-  
-  
“And I thought we had troubles,” Tom Branson said softly in Mary's ear as they went through after dinner.  
His breath tickled, and she laughed both at that and what he'd said. 

Marigold.  
Mary found her niece very amusing, and wondered if Edith would ever be able to handle her.  
She was like Rose all those years ago, or maybe even a bit like herself. 

 

“A powder keg,” Tom said again in a low voice, looking over at their guests.  
Not me, then, Mary corrected herself. I always managed to stay cool.  
(Pictures of Pamuk and various others flickered past in her mind.)  
Usually managed to stay cool.

“Well, she IS entertaining,” Lady Mary said carefully.  
“And she's not going to end up in uniform, so Edith's got one more thing going on me.”

 

Tom nodded.  
He shared Mary's worry about George.  
But, then, he'd never been one to approve of British war.

“And your Sybbie, I'm sure, has someone?”  
Mary nodded in the girl's direction.  
“She's far too blooming for there to not be a secret hidden there.”

 

Tom took a drink off the tray as Barrow went by.  
“There's someone, I'm sure,” Branson said. “I just haven't found out who it is.”  
“We'll have to work on it, then, you and I,” Mary drawled as she took her own drink in turn. “Thank you, Barrow.”

\---

“The boys at the base are oodles of fun,” Marigold enthused to Sybbie. “You really ought to give up that old kitchen and those scrap drives to go where the boys are, yourself.”

“I'm quite fine,” Sybbie said, hiding a smile. “But I'm glad you're having fun.”  
She grinned at her cousin sincerely.  
“Do tell me all about it,” she offered.  
And, without stinting, Marigold did.

\---

“It was nice seeing you having such a good time with your cousin,” Cora said as they began to finish the night.  
She patted Sybbie's cheek softly.  
“Such a good girl you are, Sybil. And you look beautiful in that dress.”

Then, “What were you finding to talk about?”  
Sybbie chuckled.  
“Marigold.”

 

She tilted her head a second and paused before continuing.  
“Well, Marigold's conquest. Some pilot named Charlie.”

“That's nice, dear” said Cora, looking over her shoulder and doing a last survey of them all.  
The duties of a hostess never ceased, even if it was now just family.  
“Do we know this Charlie? What's his last name?”

“Bryant, I think,” said Sybbie. “She's completely besotted with the man. Aunt Edith had better watch out or they'll run off in some Romantic Elopement.”  
Sybbie kissed her grandmother and left for her bedroom.  
And Cora stood there thinking a moment. 

 

Charlie Bryant?  
The name sounded familiar somehow.  
Did they know a Bryant family?  
And as Cora did her usual process of weeding through all the local family connections, her mouth suddenly made a small “oh.”

 

She certainly did know a family of Bryants.  
Who had an adopted son Charles.  
Cora's eyes widened into two round blue orbs.  
Though not of their same last name, she would have thought.

“Edith, darling, I need to speak to you before we all go up,” Cora called, her voice still soft and gentle across the room.  
If she was right, this might take some finesse.

\---

Mary laughed so hard tears were rolling down her face.  
She'd at least had the decency to wait until Edith and Bertie went up, but then she could contain herself no more.  
“Really, Mary,” her mother scolded. 

“Well, you've saved them, mama. No harm will be done to the family lineage, other than what Edith's already done.”  
She wiped her eyes carefully with the tips of her fingers.  
“And, truly, this could only happen to Edith.”

 

“Poor Edith,” her father intoned, as he frequently had when they were tiny girls.  
Mary was quite set off again.

“We're going up,” Cora said, rather frostily.  
As she and Robert departed.

 

“Oh, golly, Tom get us a drink, would you? I'm completely done in by it all.”  
Branson complied, trying to keep his own laughter inside.  
It was no small thing, but it wouldn't exactly be a catastrophe if the two young people actually loved one another, no matter how bad the match. 

These aristocrats, he thought cynically. They want a marriage Above their station, not just at it.  
Such furor.  
(But if it were his beautiful Sybbie and this Charles, would he be saying the same? Tom really didn't know.)

 

Branson crossed back and handed her the drink.  
“Are you feeling better about Georgie, now?” he asked as he sat.  
“Never,” she replied. “But I feel better myself after a laugh.”  
And together by the fire, they continued to companionably chat.

\---

Barrow, who automatically listened into any conversation within hearing distance had, of course, heard the one earlier between Lady Mary and 'Mister' Branson.

So they knew Miss Sybbie had 'someone.'  
Barrow, as usual, left them before they went up for the evening.  
But as he made his way downstairs, he came to a sort of decision. 

 

Mr. Carson wouldn't approved of it.  
Perhaps not even Mrs. Hughes.  
But remembering his talks with Daisy, Thomas came to a 'Patmore option.'

 

Best split the decision entirely—let Daniel keep his hopes while in the army.  
And when he came home, the two could face things and be separated if her father decreed.  
No heartbreaks for a boy on the line. 

(But a shiver ran through Barrow as he finished his thoughts on this. For it reminded him of William.  
And he hoped that Daniel's fate was much more kind.)


	18. Chapter 18

-  
-  
-  
There were numerous call ups in the late months of spring '41 as manpower was squeezed and block reservations shelved.  
The army now granted deferments for only truly essential individuals.  
Sadly, Andy Parker no longer made the cut. 

“But he is essential,” Lady Mary argued with the Official by way of telephone,  
her voice growing more polite and clipped as her anger rose.

She wrapped the cord back and forth between her fingers in agitation.  
Back and forth. Back and forth. Though her face remained a calm mask. 

 

“You don't understand. Mr. Mason's name is on the tenancy, but he's far from able to handle things. Andrew—Mr. Parker-- is really running it, especially since the army already stole his assistant.”  
  
She twisted the cord now, strangling it between her fingers as she was forced to listen.  
“No, I...”  
“However, what you might forget is that he's a part time warden...”  
  
“What ever do you mean that ....”  
  
“Yes. I suppose YOU do. Goodbye.”  
And Mary slammed down the receiver in pique as though by doing so she could inflict damage on the man at the other end.

 

“That's it, then,” she said to Branson. “I don't know what else to do. Rude, petty little functionary.”  
(If only Tom were a little less scrupulous and would pull strings with someone in low places, some clerk whose car he'd fixed years ago, yet still drank with at the pub.)

“You hire women,” Tom said evenly. “And you let Mr. Mason boss them.”  
Mary smirked. (No, he'd never do it, even if I suggested it. And Barrow would get arrested if she had him try.)

 

“Local women?” she shook her head, knowing every one had jobs.  
“Or Land Girls living on their own? Sybbie mentioned them, you know. She was complaining about her WVS turn out, when Land Girls get to wear slacks.”  
Suddenly an old image came through her mind, distracting her.  
And Mary's face softened into a smile.

“Do you remember when Sybil wore those pantaloons that almost had papa in fits?”  
Branson chuckled, and Mary added low laughter of her own.  
“Indeed, I do.” He paused. “How things change and how they stay the same.”

 

Outside, a very insistent bird filled the break in the conversation with song.  
“Poor Daisy,” Tom said finally, turning back to melancholy.  
(Mary's memory suddenly vivid: Carson made so somber by William's dying. Her grandmother struck silent at table that night.)  
“Another husband,” she said quietly.

“That and she was the one who fought so hard for Mason to get the tenancy at the start.”  
Tom knew the intricacies of the estate more than anyone else, and still he asked it--  
“If we can, Mary, I'd like to make sure they keep it.”

 

And he looked at her with such sincerity, there was no way she could deny him the request.  
“I'm sure between us all, we'll manage a plan,” Mary said at last.  


\---

Having Andrew called up was almost more than Daisy could bear.  
For once, her children saw her break away in tears, crying noisily before the closing door could half muffle the sobs.

Andy looked at Mrs. Patmore once before going after her.  
“Now then,” the older lady said. “I know you two are bound to be frightened by this all, but you know that practically everyone in town is serving.”  
“Why even you are, in your way with all the scrap.”

 

“And your father will come through just fine. It's for nowt to worry,” she continued, wrapping the two in her arms.  
But muffled though they were, the worried tones of their mother told a different tale.  
Daisy was nothing less than gutted.

And for children who'd never seen anything other than courage from her, it was terrifying indeed.

\---

It was only because Master George was reading medicine as an undergraduate that he could still be allowed his deferment, Barrow realized, looking through the newspapers that night.  
Otherwise, he, too, would be going off like Andy. (Daniel.)

Science, engineering, and medicine would be allowed to finish to graduation—still in Master George's case only around a year away. (George. Andy. Daniel.)

 

(He'd tried, when Daniel was called up, to see if he could reach out for a more 'slippery' solution. Get him off the hook. The old Lady'd done it for Moseley, after all. Why shouldn't Barrow try it, too?  
No luck, he was sad to say. No luck for Daniel, now none for Andrew.)

 

Barrow sat in his rocker, the dim light throwing shadows around him, his paper forgotten in his lap.  
He stared off in the distance, but really wasn't seeing anything.  
At least not anything from reality.

But in his memory, he thought of Andy, fresh in as a footman, green as grass.  
Then Master George, as a boy growing up.

It was a long, long time before Thomas stopped paging through his Memories and finally went upstairs to face the nightmares there.

 

\---

Dearest Daniel,  
It's the middle of the night and the whole place is silent.  
It amazes me sometimes in the course of the day how much I miss something as simple as that.

Every day at the kitchen or when we do our WVS, there is a clamber of voices, people trying their absolute best to work together, and still all ruckus and row.  
Are the men like that? Your soldiers?  
I'm thinking so.

But here right now is silence.  
Abbey silence.  
And I wish I could share the peace and quiet of this moment with you.

Somewhere above me, cousin Violet is watching the skies with her binoculars.  
As quiet as a mouse, and as fierce as any general.  
How I wish you had a thousand men like her watching over your battalion tonight.

 

But I am not writing just to air my petty complaints or talk about the youngsters.  
I am writing tonight for two reasons.  
The first is to tell you about Andrew.  
I know that living with the Parkers made them family to you, so you should know that he is called up.

This is bound to be one of several letters telling you that, I know.

I wish he were up in Iceland with you and your polar bears, since your stories make them sound jolly and smart.  
He should have done.  
But he is to go to North Africa instead, since they think there might be an 'in' with the jerries there.

 

I remember when I was little, I'd look in Donk's old books and like the geographies best.  
So even now I think of those maps and pictures, and it seems odd to have you going to such different extremes, Manchester one way, North Riding the other.  
As though some one in charge decided to randomly flip to two different chapters in a book of maps. 

Mrs. Parker, of course, is beside herself.  
When Aunt Mary mentioned that he'd been called up, I went down to check on her for you.  
Your uncle has things in hand, or at least for the time.  
But I PROMISE I will check for you on them BOTH, while you're gone.  
Until you come back to us all.

Daddy said that they had a plan to make sure Yew Tree is fine, so you mustn't worry about that.  
It was he and Aunt Mary who were in cahoots, not me.  
Which means he truly must like your family, yes?

 

And this brings me to my second reason for writing, the enclosed pictures.  
They took two of each of us our uniforms to send to our 'young men.'  
I send them BOTH to you, having no where else in mind, of course.

I'm afraid I look rather wan and serious, and I wish I were more glamorous and sharp.  
Hopefully, though, it suffices.  
At least when you look at it, you'll know that someone is thinking of you in the silence of the night.  
And hoping that all is well. 

Most affectionately yours,  
Sybil


	19. Chapter 19

-  
-  
-  
Daisy forced herself to rise and go about things: packing Andy's satchel  
(only a few things with him, according to directions sent with the order to report);  
Seeing the children out the door to school;  
Work.

The cook knew that she was only acting out some well worn role at the big house, that she wasn't fully there.  
But there was an air of unreality about things all that first week as Andy prepared to leave.  
(“Why couldn't you be older? Is there really, truly no way round this?”)

 

Then he left.  
And when he did, some portion of Daisy went with him, a very large portion which  
left so completely that she knew it wouldn't return until Andy came back through the door.  
Odd, that. The ripping out of one's heart.

 

She was quite sure she'd hidden it all well, until she noticed both Mr. Barrow and Mrs. Moseley following her with their eyes.  
Making excuses to visit the kitchen.  
(“Just needed some tea. How ARE you?” from Phyllis.  
“You're managing. That's good.” from Thomas, who also sat next to her for long silent moments each morning sipping tea  
as she tried to remember how to breathe.)

 

Daisy ignored it all, going about the days, one hour at a time (one minute at a time) unaware of how obvious her numbness was until Mrs. Patmore showed.  
“Mrs. Patmore, how good of you to visit? And where is Mrs. Hughes, should we expect her, too?”  
(He'd mimicked surprise, but she knew, caught the look they exchanged.)

Thomas must have telephoned her to come.  
(She must be half gone, truly she was, if Thomas'd asked for help.)  


 

“Just spending the day, visiting my old haunts,” the old woman chirped, stirring around just the edges of the kitchen,  
more a stabilizing force than an actual help.  
(Though the Crawleys might have noted the food returning to its normal, better quality, just a result of that.)

“Well, we mustn't inconvenience the Family,” Daisy said in a snip. But even her anger lacked heat.  
Besides, she did feel better with the old woman around.

 

Fortunately, a small faint flicker of hope still lived in her.  
Daisy, too, had suffered in life and that helped now, having already survived a broken heart before.  
And this time, she had friends to lean on, even as she made motions to push them away.  
(Good friends don't let you push them away.)

\---

So they became experts in Cyprus, below stairs.  
Daisy, Thomas, and Phyllis.  
And it was with a start a few weeks later that Thomas realized that was WHO they were, at least amongst senior staff.  
He grimaced slightly, having fought such informality for years. But now he gave in.

 

Daisy, Thomas, and Phyllis.  
Meeting to chat in the kitchen wee smalls. Moving into the corners there as the morning came more fully on.  
The three talked about the war in general, but mainly Andy and Daniel in particular.  
They didn't give way to the more frightening things, like that Germany seemed to be building up in Syria to take Cyprus after Crete. 

No, they talked about Andy's first letters, in which he tried to describe the island itself.

 

Of course, Andy was rubbish at penmanship, but he made up for it by quantity at least.  
And the quiet man had a surprisingly lyrical bent, when he let go and babbled on.  
(What stories must he be telling his new mates about them, Thomas wondered, though he realized he probably just listened and saved up for his writings home.)

 

Andy'd got to Cyprus just before the Aussie's arrival, and their first night's shore leave that went down in the books.  
The over the top, comic description made even Daisy smile (a second) at least.

Thomas's letter went even further.  
“You wouldn't've believed them,” Andy'd scribbled with as much glee as he could muster.  
“They were quite done in by the local drink. Cavorting and capering like Pip or Jimmy.  
“Do you remember.... (There was a page or two about old times.)  
Then, “ I'll bet there'll be banging heads today.”

(Unfortunately, this funny passage had the addition, “One told me they assumed we'd soon be POW's, left undermanned out here like this.  
And he said it matter of factly enough, that we'd just have to survive imprisonment rather than the guns.”)

 

Thomas read aloud only the first part, of course, telling Daisy that she mustn't be mad at Andy for revealing a bit of drinking they'd had him do.  
And folding the letter away, he'd gone into a story of their very few nights where things got a bit bleery.

Telling it with far more detail and verve than Thomas usually gave.  
Which took both women's minds off asking for the note, itself, to read over themselves later on.

 

For MOST letters got shared.  
Everyone knew there was a joy in receiving a letter, and it was ungenerous to keep any greedily to one's self.  
They'd learned this already with Danny. The joy of hearing from a loved one.  
(Followed, of course, with the slump of worry of what might have happened since it was sent. )

 

Thomas. Daisy.  
Phyllis.  
None of them were exactly optimists, standing there with darkening smudges under their eyes,  
having experienced some of the bad things life could do.

And many times along side them,  
Sybil.  
She came down, more so than even her earlier missions to learn about Daniel.  
Coming down and listening to news about 'Andrew,' calling him Andy now. 

 

“Andy will be fine, you'll see Daisy,” the young woman said, her blue eyes wide and serious.  
“Why, he's so smart about how things work, he'll have all the equipment fixed in no time at all.”

And Sybbie'd tell them all about Cyprus history and exports, silly things that made the place more real to them.  
Donk had books upstairs, and maps from when they'd once visited the islands of the Mediterranean.  
Sybbie spirited them down, one by one.

Distracting them a moment at a time.  
Checking on them a day at a time, her lovely young face warming their mornings a bit.  
In a world gone otherwise cruel.


	20. Chapter 20

(Note: More like chapter Nineteen and a Half)

-  
-  
-  
Of course the Family couldn't stay untouched forever:  
What with the needs of conscription increasing, Atticus had been told to report.  


Until now, the Adridges managed to argue that the young man was essential to business.  
But with deferrments getting tighter by halves, he'd been called up just the same.  
“Atticus, with all those children,” Cora said, her eyes going wide and soft with the thought of them. “How old is her first child again?”

“Atticus at 38,” Tom added darkly, though he'd felt sturdy enough at that age. 

“He'll fight the good fight and help our side triumph,” Lord Grantham said in his best approximation of heartiness. 

“Let's hope so,” Lady Mary said archly. “I'm getting tired of this already, and Churchill says we've barely begun."  


\---

Below stairs, a new sense of normal grew week by week, as Andy and Daniel's letters came and replies were posted.  
Andy's men had taken fire, but not much; Hitler seeming to be aiming his evil deeds elsewhere for a while.  
In both men's cases, the strain of waiting for attack seemed to be the main issue, more than attack itself.

So while the staff knew this was a bad sort of situation, they still were thankful for it.  
And tried to hold onto this bit of luck while they had it, fearing what was to come. 

(As in fear Daisy found herself crying one morning, unaware the truck was wasting precious petrol.  
Just sitting, hands clutching the steering wheel, before she could finally go about her day.)

\---

At least as summer wore on, they had a bit of gossip for distraction.  
For Lady Mary came to learn one day, that two more of her employees had fallen in love. 

“Really, why does this always happen here?” Mary said pettishly to Barrow.  
“I'm really not sure, my lady,” the butler said seriously. “Perhaps just human nature?”

(The butler wasn't about to attempt an explanation of heterosexuals, much less to Lady Mary herself.)

 

“But do they have to actually get married?" she asked.  
"If they do, we'll have to make different living arrangements...and tutors and nannies truly must live in.”  
Barrow merely raised an eyebrow at what he assumed was her ladyship jettisoning morals for her personal convenience as an employer.

 

Lady Mary looked back at him and raised an eyebrow of her own.  
“Oh, all right,” she finally said brusquely.  
“Do you think it would cause a scandal to have some sort of suite for them here in the house?”

And the two began to 'arrange' the couple's future as neatly as that.

\---

The current tutor, a widower named Harold Blair, had become closer to nanny, Christina Zimmerman, after the episode of the enemy aliens.  
Blair didn't think it right how she'd been treated, even if it had been passed over with nothing to follow but some rules. 

The village may not have seen a problem in the worry it caused the woman, but he did. 

And Harold's sympathy warmed her heart.  
Constantly together already, it was the impetus they needed finally to push the friendship of colleagues into something more.

 

Of course, the first thing that had to happen, after several years of working side by side was simply to start calling each other by name.  
For in this household, 'Tutor' and 'Nanny' had become their only sobriquet.  
“When he asked me, I was quite overcome,” Nanny said to Mrs. Moseley.  
“But when they call the rolls next time, I'll be a 'Blair,' not a 'Zimmerman,' English through and through.”

 

“But do you love him?” Mrs. Moseley asked. Practicalities needed at least some tender feelings, even if not a grand, sweeping Romance.  
She didn't want Nanny just marrying out of fear from being called an enemy.

“I do,” Nanny said. “I really do.  
"That last one—he was an idiot. But Harold is quite a gentleman.  
He's as good with the young ones as I am, and he knows his books besides.”

Smart, thought Phyllis. Good with children and gentle.  
Those were definitely recommendations. 

“And he's quite fit and good looking don't you think?”  
Nanny smiled.

 

And later when Phyllis told it to the others, even Barrow had to lighten a bit,  
glad to know something at Downton Abbey was working out right.


	21. Chapter 21

-  
-  
-  
As summer came fully on, Yew Tree was having a hard time of it  
With both Andy and Daniel gone, there was just too much heavy lifting that the old couple and children couldn't do.  
Daisy already took on chores when she was home, in addition to her job at the big house.  
(Besides, tiny herself, she couldn't much lift.)

Another drawback was that their extended web of family and friends had double loads, themselves , so the Masons' natural source of help in time of trouble was at low ebb.

 

Yes, throughout the county, there was just too much work and too few people.  
  
Fortunately for Yew Tree, that's when two Land Girls came to stay.  
"We can't put women out in the bunkhouse,” Daisy reasoned, bringing home the news late one tired night.  
“It'll mean them rooming inside, and take some shifting, but I'm quite sure it can be done.”  
her voiced was relieved and thankful, since she'd been at wit's end worried .

  


But now as Daisy went clattering through the planning, she saw that Mrs. Patmore's face didn't show much enthusiasm at all.  
As she wound her talking down, the younger woman stopped, puzzled.  
“What?” she asked.

 

“Have you gone completely soft?” Mrs. Patmore snapped without thinking, not meaning to bite off Daisy's head at such gullibility, yet doing so all the same.  
(So much for 'kid gloves.')  
“I'll not want strangers sleeping along side of me, even if they're government sanctioned.

“Besides, those are boys, not men, out in the bunkhouse, and I'm sure some of these  
'Women' live with worse people and in worse places than that.”

 

Daisy huffed slightly and shook her head.  
“They aren't 'bad' women, Mrs. Patmore. They'd not send Mr. Branson floozies.”  
(Daisy's education on such matters came straight from the cinema, and Jimmy's comment you could recognize a 'bad girl' from her walk.)

“Don't you see? I'll move the twins in with me, and the women can have their old room.”  
(Her room seemed empty, any way, without Andy. This might help.) 

 

“You won't be out at all with that, and they'll be in the fields most hours, besides.”  
“It'll be right.”  
Daisy went and sat next to the old woman, looking at her with weary eyes.

And so, it was more love for Daisy than any confidence than won the day,  
as Beryl gave in grudgingly to the scheme.

 

But soon she was very glad she did. 

For from the first, Beryl found the Land Girls hard working and honest ,  
just two young factory workers who wanted to 'try something else' before they settled down.  
The women that showed up on Yew Tree's doorstep were single but both engaged, and their men had been gone with the first wave of soldiers out to fight. 

“We want to make a difference. It's our war, too,” seemed to be their sole motivation for each day.  
And the Masons and the Parkers, missing their own two men so much themselves, understood that motive at once.

 

“They don't seem a bad sort after all,” Beryl said softly as the women left for the barn one morning.  
“What?” asked Bertie gulping the last of his coffee.

“They're not bad! Not at all!” she repeated, louder.  
“Sturdy loading hay,” he agreed and smiled, kissed her and was gone.  
(It was a red letter day when his bride admitted to being wrong. The girls might even find something special for pudding after that.)

 

In the end, Yew Tree once again stretched its definition of 'family'  
and came away much better for having done.

\----

Meanwhile, in another sort of bunkhouse far away, their 'missing boy,' Daniel wrote:

My dearest Sybil,  
I am coming home for leave, granted as they move us.  
In transit, no letters. I'll see You and the family soon.  
Love,  
Daniel

\---

For with the Americans moving in to take over Iceland (c), Daniel's battalion was on the way.... to Scotland.  
He'd asked one of the old hands if there was any reason behind the unexplained move.  
“Well, gossip, m'laddo, says it's to train some of you younger ones in hand-to-hand and amphibious, which we real soldiers already know quite well.  
“But that's just the word. I really can't say for sure.”

The older man had given a cynical smile, then looked somewhere at mid distance, for he'd had more than his fill of close combat and beaches back at the very start of things.  
Daniel simply sighed.  
He felt quite 'trained' enough--all these rules chafed him, though he knew that they needed to be followed. 

 

At least (and here his mood lifted) at least when close home, compassionate leaves were granted.  
And soon he'd see Sybil once again.

\---

“Home, July 14, thereabouts. Daniel”

In the kitchen they put the telegram in the center of the table, occasionally touching it as they talked--as though to make sure it was real.  
With Andy so far not receiving the hot attack they'd all feared in Cyprus, Thomas gave himself over to  
pleasure at Danny's homecoming. 

The butler wasn't certain if he could have hidden it anyway; Daisy and Phyllis knew him too well.  
Still it was good to be able to celebrate with open hearts.

 

Sybbie's short letter had reached her the same day as the telegram, and she went down knowing she had to share the contents, though not positive how.  
(Love. He'd used 'Love.')  
The telegram saved her from the problem.

 

Giddy with it all, she gave Barrow a fierce hug and went to hold the precious thing in her own hands.  
Fingertips stroking it unawares, a smile playing across her face.  
“Telegrams are so short, aren't they?” she said, chewing her lip.  
(Her letter wasn't much longer, thanks to censors.)  
“He can't say much in so few words.”

But Thomas wasn't worried for what wasn't said. He was just pleased with what was.  
“He'll talk when he gets here, Miss Sybbie” the butler practically beamed.  
Sybil nodded, and turned to tease him.  
“We'll pry his stories out, you're saying? What if he doesn't have any good ones to tell?”

 

Daisy patted the girl as she walked by. “Most men will be chatty enough over a good meal. We'll start gathering coupons now.”  
Thomas nodded; a bit of 'plentiful' sounded good to him.

“Besides, he'll tell You even if he doesn't tell us,” Phyllis said to Sybbie, smiling at the young girl. 

 

And there was an awkward silence.  
Daisy snorted, turning back.  
To her left, Thomas froze.  
And Sybil, sweet Sybil, started turning a dull shade of pink, rising from her collar up to her forehead.  
“Mrs. Moseley,” she protested weakly. “How....”

“Why your face is a book, open for the reading,” Phyllis said, as though they all knew it.  
And time started again. 

  


“Danny already told me,” Daisy added, voice calm and practical. “Though no one was to say, so really, truly I wouldn't've.”  
(What wasn't said aloud could be ignored. And she gave Phyllis somewhat of a frown.)

“Barrow?” Sybbie asked.  
“Letters. I assumed,” he answered shortly, smirking at his friends.  
(So much for his worries of secrecy.)  
They breathed a moment of silence in and out.

“Oh, golly,” Sybil finally responded weakly. “Do you think my father's done the same?”  
Instead of replying, Thomas just elegantly shrugged.

\---

Tom had not come to the same surety of the Upper Three downstairs.  
But he definitely suspected by now that Sybbie was sweet on Daniel Barrow.  
Branson wasn't a total fool.  
Besides, the girl had trouble meeting her father's eye in any sort of subterfuge, and he'd been watching more carefully since Mary's comments from before.

But he didn't know if such affections were returned.  
Perhaps with this leave he'd find out, but now he sat in the library with his drink and sincerely wondered what to do.  
If the boy felt the same.


	22. Chapter 22

-  
-  
-  
“It's so miserably warm out here, Tom. Why couldn't we talk inside?”  
Lady Mary walked on with a parasol over her head. (But while giving shade, the delicate thing did nothing for the heat.)  
Branson walked beside her, hesitating before he answered. 

Looking overhead, he could see the vapor plumes of airplanes going past, like lines across their sky.  
Mary followed his gaze. “They don't want to leave us alone, it seems. Papa has come to say it makes him feel safe, knowing the RAF is up there. But I'm just as sure one night it will be a German running by.”

“Violet has you convinced, then?” Tom smiled briefly, avoiding what was on his mind a moment longer.

 

“The probabilities have me convinced,” Mary drawled. “Surely one of their pilots will be poor enough at his task to be brought down in our back yard.  
“My chatty child just has me convinced it might be in the lawn...right over there.”  
And she pointed with her chin, somewhat facetiously.

 

They strolled a bit further, Tom mustering his courage.  
“What would you think of a Barrow in the family?” he finally tried.

“We already have a Barrow in the family,” Mary said, calmly smirking.  
“But if you mean married to Sybbie, isn't he a bit too old?”

 

Tom stopped, outraged until he caught that she was making a jest. 

Had she come to the same conclusions, too? (Mary Crawley was a smart one, she was.)  
“My love seems to have changed her affections from Thomas, fickle girl. It's the nephew. And he'll soon be here on leave.”

Mary chuckled. “So you'll ask him his 'intentions' like an angry father? Or are you talking to Sybbie first?”  
Tom turned red, but was relieved that she was taking things so well.  
“You don't seem too upset by the thought.”

 

“Hmmm,” Mary paused. “Of course I did hope Sybbie would marry George, but if that's not to be,  
I'll just have to make do with whomever she decides to pick.”  
She studied Tom's face carefully as she considered how to advise him.  
“Just know, though, even in these modern times, Papa might be a tougher nut to crack.”

Branson groaned slightly in agreement, and they walked on.

The air was still, and he took off his hat to fan himself, also loosening his tie.  
“Your father.” Tom said it with a mix of pessimism and humor.  
“And he'd have not even approved Sybbie and George, so you needn't have thought that.”

 

“Why ever not?” Mary drawled, eyebrow arching.  
“They're like brother and sister,” Tom countered.  
“Ah, but papa is very fond of Egyptians, and the pharaohs did such things.”

 

She was only half teasing this time, Branson realized.  
Still, in his mind, Sybbie and George would have been an even unlikelier pair.  
“But Barrow, the younger?” he persisted. 

“Daniel,” Mary corrected. “Not ideal, of course.  
“I'd not encourage things, but we should plan for how to help her fight her corner if it comes. And poor Barrow's—Thomas, I mean.  
“Papa won't take this any better than Charles Bryant, you well know.”

\---

Entering the Abbey, the two came upon Cora in the great hall.  
“Oh, good. I was looking for you and hoping I wouldn't have to go outside to find you in this heat.”  
Mary rolled her eyes at Tom, who grinned back and went toward the stairs to change. 

 

“News, mama?” Mary prompted. “Good I hope.”  
“No news of Atticus, if that's what you mean, but news of dinner guests which should make you glad.

“Evelyn Napier is coming round this evening,” Cora started.  
Mary sighed deeply and rolled her eyes again.  
“Now, Mary, really. Evelyn Napier is coming for dinner, and he's bringing company. That Charles Blake fellow who was here a few years back.” Cora looked at her daughter expectantly. 

 

A mother's instinct to matchmake doesn't die, and she was gratified to see that she had Mary's attention.  
Cora smiled. “Mr. Blake is looking at all the great houses to assign some wartime duties. Edith thinks Brancaster will serve as a girls school for dislocated students.  
“And I'm assuming we might once again be a convalescent home. Though it's for Mr. Blake to recommend.”

 

“Papa won't like that,” Mary said, tempering her interest at the guest with her knowledge of what might be to come.  
(Poor papa, things just never go his way.)

“Your father never likes change, but then he manages,” Cora said brightly, moving on. “I'll arrange things with Barrow. Meanwhile, you should really look to see what nice thing you might have to wear.”  
Behind her, Mary shook her head. 

Parents. Really.

\---

Mary's reaction, or lack of one, gave Tom courage enough to seek out his daughter.  
On one hand, he should probably confront the boy directly first.  
On the other, he and Sybbie had always had each other's trust, and Tom didn't want to break that between them now. 

He knocked, and hearing her call, entered.  
Such a room. A room for a princess. His princess, in spite of that not being her title. 

“We might need to talk a bit, my love?” he posed it as a question, and seeing her guilty face almost laughed.  
But it was a very serious conversation they must have, truth be told. 

\---

“Evelyn Napier,” Thomas grumbled, wrinkling his nose slightly as he informed Daisy.  
It was as though he'd found himself confronted with a not particularly nice odor.

Daisy gave just the barest traces of a smile. “Viscount Branksome eating Woolton pie. If he's sturdy enough for that, then he'll never go away.” (As though he ever would, she thought.)

 

“He's bringing guests, too. That fellow Lady Mary seemed to be friendly with before the war.”  
At this, Barrow raised an eyebrow and smirked.  
Lady Mary's suitors had been numerous and varied, but at least it made for some diversion while they waited. 

Danny was already a day late, coming in.

\---

“Well, one thing that should suit you, Lord Grantham,” Charles said as they sat eating dinner that night. “Is that there won't be soldiers in the house.”  
Blake was sitting, quite resplendent, sipping wine, and he looked more like a man who'd never heard of war than one working for a Ministry should.

“But a bivouac? Within the country?” Robert drew his brows together, irritated by the thought.  
“And the gardens?” Cora queried.  
“Well, those might well be damaged, but you know many houses have already turned theirs under, planting extra vegetables for the war.”

 

Evelyn could see that Blake was failing to impress the countess.  
“Perhaps they can keep to the lawns alone,” he said. “Besides, I'm sure all of our men, housed outside or in, would be very careful guests in a big house like this.” 

“Usually,” Blake agreed (having heard word of furniture and bannisters being burned for fuel as needs arose.)  
“But they will be outside, so even if the lawns or gardens suffer, you'll still control the house.”  
(It was the best he could do, and better than he ought.)

 

“I'm sure we'll manage. It at least won't mean ping pong in the library, papa,” and Mary smoothed things over with a smile.  
Meanwhile Cora turned the conversation gently to books and libraries.  
(For a pleasant dinner party depended on its hostess. And it was a task Cora did quite well.)

The guests finally left, parting with promises of keeping in touch, as well as keeping the intrusions to a minimum when and if the army came their way.

One by one the doors were locked and the inhabitants took to their beds.

\---

And it was in the deep silence of the night before Daniel Barrow came.  
A sliver of a moon hung in the sky, lighting his way down the path,  
feet moving almost automatically for he was half dead with fatigue. 

He'd struck out as soon as his orders allowed, without taking time for sleep.  
Only the most necessary of delays as he went on to Downton, pulled to the big house first,  
pulled to Sybil's side ever since that first kiss.

A few pebbles against the window served his purpose.  
(For the Barrow ability at sport was his, too.)

 

And she came to the window, then, her face a pale oval.  
Seeing him there she waved and ran quietly to the downstairs,  
knowing his shape even in shadow,  
so happy that he at last had come home.

Of course through months of letters, the two had quite advanced their feelings,  
undoubtedly more than two proper people would have without a war.


	23. Chapter 23

-  
-  
-

After several hours of talking...and kissing....and talking, the two young people finally parted--  
Daniel going downstairs to the servants hall to sleep in one of the arm chairs there.  
There was no chance he'd get to Yew Tree before dawn, and he'd want to see both Daisy and his uncle anyway. 

He had forgotten about the locks until he heard the turn of the bolt in the servants door,  
then Daisy and Thomas talking in low voices in the kitchen as they began the morning routine.

(Good, they didn't see me, Daniel thought, carefully leaving and pretending to enter again. )

 

As he came in the two went silent for a moment before Daisy exclaimed in delight.  
“We're so glad you're back, Danny! “ (Her smile was warm and true.)  
“Come have a bite right now before the others come down.”

“Or a wash, first,” his uncle said bluntly, looking at his nephew's disheveled state.  
“I could use it, at that,” the young man said, nodding agreement  
(though two pink spots appeared high on his cheeks. )

 

The cook scoffed.  
“Leave him be,” Daisy said to Thomas pointedly, putting a plate of bits and pieces down, next to a cup of farmer's tea.  
And gratefully, Danny tucked in, watching the two with questioning eyes.  
Daisy said nothing but dimpled back, trying not to laugh.

“You needn't wolf it, standing. Go on with you. I'll bring more out to the table in a moment or so.”  
Danny mumbled his thanks around a mouth half full, then moved to give the tiny woman a hug. 

 

Swiping his mouth with the heel of his hand, he looked at her close.  
“I just wish I were Andy, here for you.”  
But though her eyes clouded for a moment, Daisy shook her head.  
“It will be, soon enough. But let's not dim such a happy time for all that, truly not.”

Daniel smiled. 

Looking at his uncle, he continued, “Maybe it is best that I clean up, though. I thought to wait to do it at Yew Tree, but if you'll let me, I'll do it here.”  
Barrow nodded.  
“Upstairs. You can use the men's bath.”

 

And he went up, while behind him they smirked, both aware  
that he'd been inside before the lock was undone again by Barrow earlier on.  
Idiot boy.

\---

Upstairs at breakfast, Sybbie was as nervous as a cat.  
Behind her father, Barrow stood, refusing to catch her eye.  
She'd expected to hear of Daniel's return, and had expressly practiced an air of surprise for that moment. 

Instead, her teeth were quite set on edge by the ordinary conversation.  
(And by the fact that so many people seemed to know what she'd fancied quite personal and secret.)  
However, when her father smiled at her across the table, she let go of that, relieved.  
Perhaps being transparent made things simpler in some ways after all.

\---

“Servants Hall,” said Barrow simply, shaking his head in exasperation as Sybbie came down stairs as soon after clearing as decent.

“Garden,” Daisy said, scrubbing the table, as the girl flew by. 

“Am I missing something?” Anna asked, sewing in the corner.  
“Not for long, I'm sure,” Daisy smiled back at her. “And even if it's just an hour or two, let me enjoy the knowing before you, since it truly's a rare thing over the years.”

Anna reflected back Daisy's grin, thankful to see some sort of happiness on the woman's face at last.  
But the maid could add her suspicions together already.  
Daniel back and Sybil running?  
Anna just hoped Lady Mary knew of this.

\---

The kissing came much easier once started, Sybil realized with a blush as she almost grabbed Daniel into an embrace.  
Daniel, for his part, didn't seem to mind her lack of caution, for he too was kissing without a word, having dreamed of her so long.  
The dream merged with the reality, as he claimed her lips for his own once again. 

Sybil.  
Who thought herself plain.  
Sweet, beautiful Sybil.  
Daniel kissed her eyelids as they slid shut.  
Eyes, lips neck. She gasped softly.

And, then, as though awakening, she kissed him back with a ferocity that quite matched his own.  
A few whispers came between the kissing.  
But mainly a silence broken only by slight sounds of their embraces.  
And sighs in seconds where the contact was by needs broken.

\---

 

“And the young man, Daniel? What does he seem to make of her attention?”  
Mary added a choker to her change of clothing, checking herself in the bedroom mirror.  
Moving behind, Anna smoothed her hair. 

“Cheeky beggar,” she smiled as she answered. “I like him, and I'm sure he'd not have started things, but...”  
Mary looked sideways. “He'll not turn her away if she begins?”  
Anna pressed her lips together, holding back a smile.  
“I wouldn't have involved you, my lady, but I don't believe so.”

 

“Hmm,” Mary hummed turning side to side.  
“Well, I'm sure they can't get far in the estate with all of us so close by.”  
Mary turned to her then, looking at Anna straight. “I know I can trust you, so I'll out with it. Mr. Branson is aware, but my parents aren't yet.  
“Perhaps you can help us by keeping an eye out for anything untoward.”

“Other than the fact of who they are?” Anna asked.  
“Which all of us lived through with her mother years ago,” Mary returned.  
“Love will eventually conquer all, and it's a waste of energy fighting it I've learned.” 

 

Anna made her last adjustments.  
Then, “well done, my lady.”  
And the two shared a smile.

\---

Daniel almost had to tear himself away from Sybil, but he needed to make a trip down the road that afternoon.  
He had four growing lads out at Yew Tree who'd taken him for their own, and still monitored his letters as though they were Relics.

And also there were the Masons, who once he got there didn't want to leave his side.  
Davey and Dolly Parker added on to the hugging.  
Until Daniel felt quite overwhelmed, to go from a faraway cold world of wartime into this feeling of love.

 

And he was surprised to find the farm so well in hand. Pleasantly surprised.  
It showed promise of a wonderful harvest that year, and he complimented the Land Girls enthusiastically along with the children.  
“Perhaps, then, I can stay at the big house with my uncle,” Danny started, knowing himself now to be duty free.

Not surprisingly, however, he was immediately shouted down.  
“At the very least stop with us, same as always, and go up there of a day.  
“That way Thomas will get you enough.”  
Mrs. Patmore said it with a note of warning, for her orders weren't to be denied.

And then she'd followed it with a tray of food, commenting that he'd gotten 'much too thin.'

 

“So she says, so it will be,” Bertie Mason intoned, smiling, patting the boy on the back.  
Then nicking a bite of the impromptu feasting, he went to give the old woman a hug and a kiss.  
For Bertie had learned that the best way to keep the household happy was to simply go along.


	24. Chapter 24

-  
-  
-  
Charles Blake, of course, returned...a mere two days later.   
Mary was quite used to ignoring Evelyn Napier paying duty calls, almost showing off his devotion in a way that struck her wrong.   
(All these years, like a 'cat once fed.')  
But Charles.

 

“And will you invite him to stay this time?” her mother prompted.   
“Don't be so transparent, mama,” Mary chided, but as Cora turned, she smiled.   
It felt odd at her age to have someone new seem interested, even a man she'd once known in her youth.

Even a man she (regrettably) felt no attraction to any longer.  
(No, that's not honest, Mary thought. I feel attracted to him, just as I did to Henry. All 'sex appeal,' good hair, and flashing smile.   
But though I'd sleep with him, and enjoy it, I'd never marry him.  
And it's a cheat to let him expect that I could.)

 

She went to Charles, smiling then, not sure exactly what she'd say.  
“I know I'm being an annoyance, coming back around so soon,” he started them out.  
“But think of this all as a reconnoitering situation. Where we just need to be ready for all the possibilities.”

“Possibilities?” she asked.  
“Always possibilities,” he replied.

 

“We'll do our duty, of course,” Mary said blandly. “Though perhaps we can soften you by having you stay here on your tour of Yorkshire.”  
It's a thin line, she thought, between being friendly and too friendly.  
Mary certainly did not intend to lead Charles Blake on.

\---

“I don't want to ever lead you on.”   
Daniel looked at her, grey eyes piercing her to the heart.  
And for one brief second Sybbie worried, but then relaxed.  
“You'd never,” Sybil said then.

“But I want to make things clear. Even if you can't answer the question yet.”   
And from an inner pocket, he pulled out a very thin gold ring.  
“It's why I was a day late,” he said. “And I know it's not much, but at least it serves to prove my intentions.   
If ever you say yes, I'd be the proudest man alive to make you a wife.”

 

“Oh,” Sybil said, her knees going weak.  
It was almost breathlessly hot, though that was not why she was suddenly faint.

He licked his lips, fearing that he'd gone too far.  
She wasn't saying anything in response.  
“I just want you to know how I feel, if ever you did...” and he let his voice taper off, beginning to look away,   
even to put the ring back in pocket.

 

“No, you don't,” Sybil said, reaching for it.   
“I mean, yes. I was just surprised by the speed of things. But, yes, I will.”  
(And both began to laugh at the unladylike fervor of her grab,   
before falling into each other's arms.)

Finally admitting the need for air, Sybil tried the ring, which turned out to be too large for her small hands.  
“I'll wear it on my chain so it won't slip off,” she comforted him. “It's really better that way for a while.”  
And as he helped her fasten the chain back, he kissed her neck, and his breath raised small hairs in its wake. 

 

“Much better that way,” she shivered.   
And leaned back into his support with a sigh.

“I didn't go to your father yet. Didn't want to leave you in any sort of situation,” he mumbled into her neck, still nibbling.  
(Locked tower rooms, nunneries came to mind.)  
But she surprised him then:  
“He knows,” Sybil said, blushing.

 

And suddenly everything in the world felt right.   
“At least, he already knows how I feel,” she added.  
“And while he doesn't entirely approve, at least there's no 'situation' to leave.”

Grabbing her about the waist, he turned her and held her close.   
“So I can ask him? And you're sure you actually will?”

Daniel still looked amazed, as though some unexpected dream had become a reality.   
“Yes,” Sybil said, running her fingers through his hair.   
“I'll keep saying it until you believe me....yes.”

\---

Walking outside, Mary and Charles almost turned the corner into the two young people.   
Fortunately, their voices carried ahead, and, forewarned, nothing inappropriate was going on.  
(Other than the butler's nephew courting my niece, Mary thought, though with more cynical acceptance than ire.)

 

“Sybbie,” Mary greeted her, inclining her head. 

“Aunt Mary, Mr. Blake,” the young woman said, startled.   
“You'll know Daniel, of course,” and her chin went up as she stared down her aunt.   
Such beautiful blue eyes to be so fierce.

Mary almost chuckled.   
“Mr. Blake, this is Daniel Barrow, a friend of my niece's.”

Charles' smile let them all know he suspected Daniel was a close sort of friend.  
“Nice to see you both. And the spot we were talking about for the bivouac?”   
And with that, the two older people moved past. 

 

“What was that about?” Blake asked when they'd rounded another corner.   
“Trouble, probably,” Mary said calmly. “The devil always comes in a tempting package.”  
“So you think that young devil is courting your niece? It's a war on. Things do move fast.” Charles looked at her, and he seemed to put an additional meaning to the second half of the message.

“Nothing about Downton is fast, even now,” Mary replied.   
“In fact, I must thank you for coming and taking so much time with us on this project.  
“Undoubtedly you're much too busy for hand holding us all through things.”

 

They walked on, the heat oppressive, until they finally reached the tree line's shade.  
“Do you mind my hand holding?” Charles asked, trying to be clever.   
“No,” said Mary. “But as I said, I'm sure you're too busy. And I've got too many irons on the fire here myself.   
“Now do tell me of this complicated plan the army has in mind.”

And by so intentionally sidestepping the chance, then roping the talk back to business, Charles Blake was left knowing exactly where he stood.  
A shame, really, Charles thought. But still acceptable.  
And there was always a chance she'd relent.  
Until next time,  
Possibilities.


	25. Chapter 25

-  
-  
-  
Daniel's leave, of course, was too short to read the bans and get married.  
The young man hadn't expected to try, and Branson wasn't That welcoming, anyway.  
(So difficult to even accept his little Sybbie was grown up, and Mary warning him to 'keep watch' made him that much more ruffled still.)  
“We'll see what the future holds,” was as much encouragement as Tom managed to give.

Of course, Lord Grantham would be an almost insurmountable hill to climb, Daniel was now let to know.  
(Though Sybbie thought Donk might relent, if SHE approached him bit by bit.)

 

So young Barrow had his answer for the next leave....or the one after that.  
Between them they'd manage the difficulties.  
One problem at a time, slowly on. 

Daniel and Sybil both practically glowed.

\---

“I shouldn't have been so lenient, I suppose. Letting you think that such a thing would be easily acceptable,”  
Thomas said to Daniel as they sat together in his office.  
Danny just laughed at him. “I didn't even expect to talk to her father, thinking he'd send her to a convent. So I'm quite all right.  
“'Easily' never entered my mind.”

 

“Hmmm,” Thomas said. “But I'm not sure you should be. 'All right,' that is.  
“Have you really thought this through, Danny? How can you even hope to keep her in a nice enough home to suit?”

“Are you asking me my intentions?” Daniel asked, astonished.  
“Actually, yes, I am.”  
And so Sybbie's second father had a go.

\---

“Worse than your father, he was,” Daniel said ruefully as they walked in the twilight.  
Sybbie started giggling, and once started almost couldn't stop.  
“And I was worried about Aunt Mary most,” she managed between fits. “And she just glided by, unflappable.”

“I do see what they mean,” he said standing quietly, kicking a heel into the ground.  
“I never thought of how low I'd be bringing you.”

And that brought Sybil up short. “You will not,” she said, quite definitely.  
“After the war, there'll be jobs. Daddy's worked the entire time I've grown up, so he can't look down on you for that.”

 

“And the house?”  
“The house is beautiful, but I'd happily live in a cottage if it means I get to live with you.”  
She swung in front of him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Really, Daniel. Do you think I'm as light as all that?”

His kiss made a ready reply.

\---

“I'd ask how you're getting on, but still drinking in the dark after hours tells me much.”  
Mary moved to turn on a light and fetch herself a glass before settling.  
Poor Tom, he looks quite untidy and deranged, she thought.  
And Mary's humor, usually an infant thing, grew enough to see over the problems of young love. 

“They'll be fine, Tom. If it even happens at all,” she said, sitting next to him. 

 

“Oh, he's upped the ante, the young lothario did. He's asked formally if they can court.”  
Tom finished his (fourth) drink in a gulp.  
“I wouldn't mind so much if he wasn't Thomas's nephew,” he grumbled. 

Mary laughed. “I'd mind MORE if he wasn't Thomas's nephew. The problem is lack of status and money, not who he is.  
Barrow's proven himself over the years, and I assume the boy will, too.”

 

“Hmmm,” was Tom's only reply as he got up to get the decanter and refill their drinks.  
He sagged back into the seat.  
“She'll leave, you know. Did you think of them moving away, these children?”

Mary's face softened. “My Georgie already has.”

“At least he'll be back.”  
“Hopefully,” and she took a very large sip herself, remembering only afterwards to tilt the glass and murmur 'chin chin.'

 

“If she leaves, there's no need for me to stay.”  
Tom looked deep into his glass and missed Mary's look.  
“Maybe I could go back to Boston again. Sell up the shop after the war when prices rise.”

“Or maybe you'll just stay here as you should. Really, Tom, you're going too far with this mawkishness now.  
“Papa's still earl, and he won't turn us out. And when he dies and Georgie marries, if his wife's too stern, there's always the dower house.”

 

“For you.” Tom said. “I'll be the crazy man here in the corner, blubbering into my drink.”

“I'll take you in out of the rain. Don't worry.” She smiled at him, then, “Or young Barrow will have to give you their spare room.”  
And he groaned as she laughed, then started chuckling a bit himself, the alcohol finally doing its job.


	26. Chapter 26

-  
-  
-  
It had been a short sort of leave, but Daniel had hopes of another in the future,   
if their battalion kept its posting near enough.

And Sybil went back to WVS with a bit of a heavy heart, wishing she could still be at his side.   
But she'd neglected duty as long as she dared, and knew she deserved a bit of a ticking off for that neglect.  
Not this much, though, she thought, standing clutching at her collar,   
under which the ring now lay.

 

“Nasty old woman,” Sybbie almost said aloud.   
“No use to tell her about a 'friend's' home coming.”  
For while Sybil virtually ran her centre, she was supervised by periodic visits from above.

 

These checks and counterchecks kept everything running smoothly and on the up & up in theory.  
But they certainly rubbed the wrong way now.   
(“Nasty, mean, and foolish besides,” Sybil thought.  
“She used to be a house keeper. That's why she enjoys so lording it over the rest of us, especially me since I live at the big house.”)

Sybbie just stood there quietly, saying nothing, letting the others nearby hear the woman's tirade, her grandstanding.

Finally, Sybil said in her meekest tones, “I've done my Monthly Narrative over, as you asked, in quadruplicate as always.”  
(Every tiny mistake meticulously corrected, she wanted to grumble.)  
“I'm so sorry that I had something come up that made me miss some hours.”

 

Again, Sybbie stood quietly taking the chastisement. The others knew she worked more hours than anyone else.   
“This is not some play party,” the old crone wound up. “You can't be a grand lady around here.”

Sybbie breathed softly in and out, and found herself flushing. Oh, if she could ever control her foolish cheeks.  
“Again, I'm sorry, and thank you so much.”

But not wanting to loose her temper, the young woman nodded and abruptly moved off.   
Enough was enough. She knew she needed to catch up, but Sybil Branson would be no one's whipping boy.  
She had more to her than her innocent face would suggest.

\---

Sybil had an idea the week before. (Before everything left her mind but Daniel's eyes and lips.)  
It was quite prosaic and practical, and hard to concentrate on now, but she forced herself to do so almost as penance.   
(Sybbie might ignore the unfair lecture she'd just received,   
but she wouldn't ignore her own conscience and what it had to say.)

“Meat pies,” she mumbled, pulling a pad of paper toward her. (Nothing more work-a-day than that.)  
“If we put a pennyworth of meat in each and use the kitchens here. We can pedal them out to the workers while they're warm.”

 

Mobile canteens had been the order of the day for the WVS in the cities.   
But such things had limited practicality in the countryside.  
Still, if they cooked the things and used bicycles to go to the farms, that might work. 

And Sybil lost herself in the figures for an hour. 

 

“What're you doing, Syb?”  
Her cousin Edward's soft voice at her elbow made the young woman jump. 

Beside him, Clarey Bates giggled slightly, a high pitched sort of thing that he clamped down on, trying to act older than he was.   
“Working,” she said shortly, but then she smiled.  
Edward had been quite her companion when George left, and she'd been ignoring him too much these last months. 

 

“I'm thinking up ways to win the war,” she smiled and motioned the boys to sit on the counter by the window.   
“Thought the last fete was going to earn us enough to do that,” Clarey said, pointedly.  
Sybil nodded back. “Seems to never end, does it? The money raising. But we're doing better than most centres so we should be proud.”  
(And praised, she thought. Not lectured.)

 

“How much did you make, Syb?” Edward asked. “Clarey and I were talking about it, and wondered.”  
He looked so serious that she didn't want to laugh.   
“Not enough for a spitfire, but quite a bit.”  
She pulled out a ledger and, flipping through, named an amount. 

Clarey gave Edward a significant look.   
“What?” Sybil asked suspiciously.   
“Granny said more than that when we listened in that day.” Edward had the good grace to look embarrassed for having spied on Cora,   
but he still felt the need to tell Syb.

 

“It's probably the expenses, love. My accounts just show the profit, not all that.”

“Spies,” Clarey said, and his voice gave an embarrassing squeak on the word, breaking in a way that made him go red.

“Spies?”  
Here Sybil did give in to a chuckle.   
“And which spies do you think skimmed money from our cash box?”

 

“Dunno, exactly, but we're watching,” Clarey said after giving his throat a good clearing.   
Miss Sybil was so beautiful, it was sometimes hard for a man to talk.

“We are,” agreed Edward. “That ugly old woman who bosses you. Those two men who visited mama. Not just the Italians and the Germans. That seems too obvious.”

“Sounds like someone's been listening too much to 'It's That Man Again.' I'll have to tell Aunt Mary.”  
But Sybil said it lightly enough, and reached out to tuck back his falling bangs   
behind her cousin's ear.

 

“They won't be like old Funf,” Clarey corrected. “Hitler may look foolish, but we figure he must have some brains.   
I'll bet they've spies and counter spies who look just like us,”   
“Infiltrators.”  
And the boy seemed to enjoy the word. 

 

“Well, I'll be sure to watch for them,” Sybil said, keeping her face carefully neutral.   
They were too young to be worried about such things, really, but she supposed that to their childhood,  
watching for spies was like reading a storybook had been to hers.  
“But for now, let's see if the tea shop has something they can sell, yes? A treat?”

And with that, Sybil became even more beautiful to the two boys than ever before.


	27. Chapter 27

(Note: I shifted these news stories in Cyprus/Cairo from June to July so as not to have them impact the Sybbie/Daniel interlude. The Aussie move out was 30 July, so I'm good on that much.....I think. Dasted historical fanfic. )  
-  
-  
-

 

Meanwhile, the news reports from Cyprus weren't good.  
In fact, decided the editor, better if it weren't reprinted at all.  
And he slashed it through with his red pen.

Leaving Daisy & Thomas (who read every scrap between them) in the dark.

 

***Cyprus Post, Nicosia****  
“The situation at Cyprus is tense. Aged persons and children have gone to the hills.   
Some English women and children have transferred to the mainland. Defence  
regulations announce penalties for looting and spreading alarmist reports,  
and also give the authorities wide powers in commandeering.  
The 'Cyprus Post,' discussing the German chances against Cyprus,  
points out that the enemy is further from the Greek bases,  
but an invasion is possible from the Dodecanese Islands and Syria.”

***Cairo****  
“Several hundred Jewish refugees who escaped from Germany to Cyprus in the first years of the Nazi regime and have since adjusted themselves to life in the British island colony, have appealed for admittance to Palestine in fear of Nazi attacks on Cyprus, it was learned here today.  
In their appeal, the Jews declared that should they again fall into Nazi hands, they would immediately be interned in concentration camps since many of them are political refugees. They expressed hope that the Palestine administration would admit them under the portion of the Palestine immigration quota which has remained unused during the last twelve months....  
Anticipating an early Nazi attack on Cyprus, British military authorities are now feverishly fortifying the island, which is the gateway to Syria and Palestine. At the same time the evacuation of British women and children from Cyprus to Egypt was started while native families fearing bombing from the air, are moving to the mountainous sections of the island. The distance from Cyprus to Syria is only about 100 miles and fear is expressed that should the Nazis have succeeded in landing troops in Syria, as reported, they will attempt to move from Crete and from Italian islands to Cyprus in order to menace the British positions all the way from Cyprus and Palestine to Suez.”

\---

 

30 July, 1941

Daisy Girl,  
The Aussies are leaving us in Cyprus to go on to grater glory,  
and what a haul we've got.  
Your husband now is the proud owner (well, borrower) of an abslutely splendid motorcycle.  
Thank Mr. Branson for me, since he showed me how to do repairs on motors and such.  
I am now quite the poplar man, working with bits and bobs to keep us all in gear.

We rec'd all told 14 universal carriers, most of their 15 cwt trucks, and ALL the motorcycles, which is why I've come into such a fine ride. 

It was a 'bit' hot here. (ho ho)  
July in Cyprus certainly isn't July in Downton.  
If anyone there complains about the heat—even in the kitchen—tell them off for me.  
And, yes, tell Barrow that he can joke about our uniforms.  
Short pants, nobbly knees and all. 

But when we try to wear trousers of an evening, every one of us feels we're sweltring  
in a useless effort. (It's not like Adolf cares what kit we wear when he flies over,  
and the King should love us no matter what WHEN we win the war.)

I'll tell you now we HAVE had some fly overs from the jerries, but don't you worry if you hear of them.  
The civvies—pfft--such alarmists.  
All is well.  
  
The children have left the area right around our base, now, which makes me a bit blue. I'd enjoyed seeing them and thinking of the twins.  
(Maybe they'll come back, seeing me whizzing around on my new machine. )

But it is not all fun here, and I know that you know that.  
It's not bad, but it's not home.

Hug the children an extra one for me, will you?  
And try to hum 'our song' as you do your work. It will remind you that I love you.  
More than ever.  
I know I'm luckest man ever. 

Rushing now....sorry so short...  
Much, much LOVE,  
Andy

PS Swaped Randall cigs for the photo of me. Good thing I never took up the habit. Hope you like.  
\---A.J.P

 

\---

“The Aussies are pulling out,” muttered Daisy. “Why would they pull out if they've had fly overs?”  
She paced back and forth in Thomas's office, door closed.  
He was finishing scanning the letter, grinning a bit at the nobbly knees and motorcycle,  
trying not to frown that Andy had given over and talked of shooting. 

Usually only Barrow's letters had any mention of shooting, which he tried (though sometimes failed) to censor in the sharing. 

 

“Now Daisy, that's a good thing, surely.”  
Thomas spoke in the same voice he'd use in calming one of the youngsters—respecting the fear, while soothing it.  
“They wouldn't have them leave unless the spot where Andy is needs them less than some other spot.”

She wasn't coming to sit. In fact, Daisy seemed to be more agitated, frantically chewing a thumb nail as she twisted, looking from one thing to another.  
One clock to another, the ticking failing to soothe.

 

“Daisy. It'll be fine.” And Thomas came and placed a hand on her shoulder.  
She had such thin bones, like a small child or a little bird.

“They've evacuated the children, then it's like London, right? Being blitzed only we don't know.”  
Daisy stopped chewing on her nail long enough to talk, and as her hand hung there in mid air, Thomas took it in his own. 

 

“You don't know that,” he said quietly. “It could be like Manchester. Or Leeds. Where part of the town got hit, but the rest didn't.  
Or like Downton, where we've had towns around us, but not our own.  
“Besides a flyover could be shooting, not even bombs. And they'd not have children out in that.”

 

He huffed out, as her skeptical eyes continued to challenge him.  
“Hmpf. Here.”  
And Thomas pulled her gently into his arms.  
He wasn't good at hugging tiny women, by any means, having very little reason for practice.

And as soon as he did it, she burst into tears, which made him even more unsure he was being any comfort at all.  
“There, there,” he murmured.  
(Think of her as Sybbie.)  
“It'll be fine.”  
(But it wasn't a scraped knee, this horrible thing here.)

 

“You just need to keep thinking he's fine.”  
(But images of his own time on the front line came before him.  
You were only fine until the moment when—pfft--you were not.  
One bullet was all it took.)

“I'm absolutely certain that things are as they should be.”  
But inside Thomas felt her fear harden like a rock inside his belly  
and become his own.

\---

The others were much impressed with Daisy's photograph of Andy.  
She'd dried her eyes and no one but Thomas was the wiser about her outburst earlier. 

She wouldn't make a general airing of her fears.  


“A motorcycle. That'd be the berries.”  
“Far less petrol than our motor car.”  
“And doesn't he look dark from all the sunshine.”

 

The conversation ebbed and flowed around them.  
And Daisy managed soon to join in with the rest.  
“I'll not be showing you my letter, it was private,” she'd told Mr. Moseley who (still) joined them each night.  
“But he says he's well and misses everyone.”

 

“Andy the romantic?” Bates asked, smiling gently.  
“Mr. Bates, behave,” Anna grinned back at him. “And, of course, he is. Don't turn red for it, Daisy. We're glad of it.”  
Fortunately for all of them, the bells rang at that point, drawing a line under the matter.


	28. Chapter 28

-  
-  
-  
(Note: Take one film, two news articles, add Andy, mix thoroughly.....and throw a little Jimmy on top. Again, dates shifted slightly.)

 

Jimmy Kent strode into Downton Abbey as though he owned the place.  
Forty years old, and still without a grey hair in his head.  
Lines around his blue eyes, though—more lines from laughing than frowning,  
for if something made him frown, Jimmy shucked it off and went on. 

“Is anyone there to greet a man in this benighted place?” he called out loudly, continuing his march to the kitchen, sure of success there. 

 

“Jimmy? What on earth?” Thomas came from his office and the two met at the door, as Daisy came out.  
“Hail your conquering hero. Give me a kiss, Mrs. Parker.”  
And he leaned down, making a play for it, though she smacked him hard to keep him back, before allowing a slight smile.

“Daft beggar, what're you ever doing here now?” she asked, adding on to the confusion.  
“Are you drunk in the daylight?” Thomas added, as this was peculiarly exuberant behavior even for Jimmy Kent. 

 

Jimmy snorted.  
“I am neither drunk, nor daft. I am on a quick mission which I must complete in the next two hours or face jail time. But it's worth it.”  
Thomas gave him a smirk. What had Jimmy done that might result in jail?  
(The possibilities were wider than one might think.)

“I am here to tell you, Daisy, that your husband is officially a movie star, an icon for the ages.”  
Daisy frowned and looked at him a bit crossly.  
“Don't joke about Andy, Jimmy, it's not kind. We had a worrisome letter.”

 

“Well, I've had a NOT so worrisome newsreel.”  
Jimmy went into the kitchen, reaching around the young assistant cook and nicking some of her best efforts as she grinned and blushed.  
“Seriously, Daisy. I swear. I ran the thing so many times last night that I almost wore it out. It's Andy, sure as you live.”

“And you didn't just telephone us? One of us could have run Daisy over today to take a look,” Thomas said, always the more reasonable of the two.

“And why should only Daisy enjoy the show? And who knows what big house drudgery might prevent a trip?” Jimmy grinned.  
“That's why I'm on the lam, and must be back on winged feet, as it were.  
“I brought it with me, stole the film and projector and put it in me trunk.”

 

Daisy clapped and went to make phone calls.  
Thomas stood, his mouth falling open, staring at Jimmy.  
“That's a bloody big projector,” he said, having helped once to fix it.

“It was a bloody hard thing to do,” Jimmy laughed, cocky and proud of himself.  
(You love me now, don't you?)

“The whole place is run by women now, though, so I actually had help on the crime.  
And the owner's wife...is friendlier than I'd like her to be, but she'll cover for me if worse comes to worst.”  
“Now, shake a leg and figure out a dark little room where we can set up or  
something to cover the windows dark. We've a show to put on very, very quickly, so everyone can get a look.”

 

By the time the Masons and the boys crowded into the servants hall, they'd managed to make the place over a bit.  
And the projector, a hulking thing, had been propped up and threaded through.  
(“Those little holes called sprockets are horrible buggers,” Jimmy told Mrs. Patmore. “Get jammed up and break.”  
“Dear lord,” she said, nervously standing by.)

 

The MoI film was alarmingly short, but received like a Hollywood production.  
Men in pith helmets unloaded a ship, a British ship. And the ministry announcer reassured the audience  
that Cyprus in the summer of 1941 was being turned into an armed garrison, fortified to  
hold out against anything the Axis could throw.

But to allay any concerns that the men were being pummeled, the next shot showed them relaxing in the olive groves,  
digging trenches, washing their kit in an outdoor laundry.

 

Back to serious, the newsreel noted that there were anti-aircraft emplacements.  
And then came Andy's “starring” role.  
For there were a number of men filling sandbags to put around the emplacements.  
And Andy, bare chested and brown like all the rest, took a moment to rest on his shovel and smile at the camera. 

Their Andy. His smile wide and whimsical, his eyes still soft. Looking for all the world like he was mucking out the Yew Tree barn.

 

Daisy started sobbing so hard she shook, relief flowing sweetly through her veins.  
Happy tears.  
The announcer assured them that by early fall, a strong reinforcement of troops would be in place  
making the garrison “the strongest in the history of the island.”  
(Hope things hold off til then, Thomas thought dourly, though he smiled and nodded to the rest of them.)

And as she sobbed and the others patted her, the film showed the British Swordfish aircraft take off from a grass strip and fly in formation, proudly overhead.

“The 815! “ shouted Mr. Mason. “I've read about them!”  
And he pounded on the table, looking over at Daisy.  
“He can't get better fellows to be by his side than that!”

\---

“May I ask if my daughter's around?” Tom Branson said blandly, interrupting from the doorway.  
They stood automatically, conversation halting as the chairs scraped back.  
(The end of the film fluttering out and hitting—thwack, thwack, thwack—as it spun free.)

“Here, daddy,” Sybbie said, still wiping her own eyes.  
“We should have come up and got everyone else, too, but I was too excited to do it.”  
And after a brief explanation (omitting the fact that the materials were stolen), a second screening was hastily done.  
This time with both Mr. Mason and Lord Grantham acting to cheer the men on. 

 

“I need to get back,” whispered Jimmy to Thomas from where they stood in the corner side by side.  
“I'll work on it now,” his friend chuckled back watching the two old gents act like pals.

“While it's a time for celebration, perhaps we can load up the film and get Jimmy back to his job?” The butler said it blandly, as though it was just another suggestion in just another ordinary day.  
“Certainly, certainly,” Lord Grantham smiled, going to shake Jimmy Kent's hand. (Quite forgetting any past dealings with the man in the excitement of the moment.)

 

And as the upstairs people went back to where they belonged, and the downstairs people loaded and re-arranged,  
Daisy went to Jimmy and thanked him herself, standing on tip toe to give him a kiss.

“It was the best gift I've had in a long, long time,” she said, still teary eyed. “Really, truly, Jimmy, it was.”

“Bah. Nothing. If you can get enough petrol to come, we'll be playing it two nights more, air raids permitting.”  
And with a slightly overstated bow to her, and a mock salute to Thomas,  
Jimmy Kent exited the stage.


	29. Chapter 29

-  
-  
-

Upstairs, things were more back to normal again.  
Lady Mary could look like a comfortable bluestocking wearing her spectacles as she went over ledgers,  
rather than hiding them and adding lipstick whenever anyone came around .  
So much more pleasant to relax. (At least until company came round again.)

 

Lady Grantham was energized by her new 'mission'—  
though Charles Blake had not assigned her a convalescent home, he'd given her the possibility of a bivoac.  
And Cora, a Lady who was protective of her gardens, was organizing sprouts and cuttings being taken, albeit slowly,  
in case a cataclysm knocked the others out.  
  
(Edward and the youngest Bates boy showed great promise in helping on this.)

 

Of course, Edward and Clarey had more than gardens on their minds.  
They had had a great time of it when Charles Blake visited, sneaking up and turning out the man's pockets while he was at dinner, looking through his papers then carefully putting them back.  
The two young people had perfected the ability to lurk.  
(“Keeping an eye out,” Edward informed Clarey severely. “It's perfectly right to do so.”)  
Since the stranger was now absent, they were looking for other places where their observations might be important.

 

Tom was spending as much time as he could following Sybil, banking his memories,  
and Lord Grantham was spending his time being followed by a new puppy (Apepi),  
so both men were at least temporarily soothed.

And they were all pleased to hear from Rose that Atticus had moved from the more precarious fallback of Alamein to join up with the rest of the brigade on Cyprus.  
(Somehow, having seen the moving pictures made that location less frightening to them.  
Cheers to the brigade, reunited once more!)

 

Thus the summer gave way to autumn.  
And everyone was happy when the heat broke and news of RAF bombs to Berlin gave them a lift.  
“We'll get them,” they all said to themselves in various voices.  
“Let's hope this is soon over.”  
“We'll catch those infiltrators and crack this.”  
“Please, before Georgie has to...”  
“Before it ruins the children's futures....”

Not knowing in 1941 that they still had a long way to go.

\---

“We mustn't let down our guard, just because they haven't blitzed Downton,” Violet said, scanning the skies from their perch late one fall night.  
“No,” Johnny Bates agreed, scanning beside her. “I don't believe anyone has.”

“They all are scoffing at that poor Mr. Moseley of yours. For the black outs and false alerts.”  
She looked over severely, as though daring him to argue. 

 

“He's not exactly MY Mr. Moseley,” Johnny laughed. “He's your granny's maid's Mr. Moseley if he's anybody's.”

“He belongs to the village,” she said, going back to watching.  
(How could Johnny begin to explain to her how he felt part of the village and yet totally separate from it? And how to explain that Mr. Moseley, though a village school teacher, lived in the estate gate house and, therefore, was at a slight distance himself?)

 

“Ours,” she said, then looked at him when he failed to call out.  
“Woolgathering,” he apologized and went back to the task.

“How 's it with your cousin?” asked Johnny, for Clarey had told him that the young woman was Eloping with Daniel Barrow,  
adding that neither Edward nor Mr. Barrow were entirely enthused.  
Of course, Johnny didn't know how much of this Violet might know or how much of it he should share,  
since his mother had literally smacked Clarey's bottom when she'd overheard the (much embellished) talk.

 

“Sybil? Fine, I suppose,” Violet used a rather disgusted tone—disgusted that Sybbie was still pursuing That Daniel, and disgusted that her mother and uncle seemed to be going along with the whole thing.

Was it to be completely on George and Violet to marry well?

 

“George is fine, too,” she said, his smiling face in her mind.  
“Finishing this spring. Of course, they shortened the course from five years to four because of the war. Silly, really,”  
Violet sniffed slightly.  
She hated that George might go to war, even if being a soldier was a glorious thing.  
George in danger was not to her liking. 

“And Clarey? Edward just has the two of them picking flowers for granny. There's bound to be more of a story than that.”

 

Johnny laughed slightly under his breath.  
“Well, I.....Ours!”  
He got the sighting first that time. (Shows her, he thought.)  
“Good on you,” she said lightly, glad to see his head back in the game. 

 

“Well, I think that IS all they're doing,” Johnny continued, smiling at his friend.  
“They keep watching everyone, of course. When your granny's pendant went missing yesterday, it seemed to buck Clarey up immeasurably.  
“I'm not sure if they're playing spies or detectives at this point, but it's all the same I guess.”

 

The moon was missing from the sky, and in the dark they could see the stars hanging down like little points of fire.  
There were a very few fine clouds drifting past, and in the background, the 'cloud' of stars so distant as to be unseeable individually by the human eye.  
The crinkle of the bag interrupted the 'moment' as John scavenged for a snack.

 

“No one downstairs took it, you know,” he said, thinking he should put in a good word.  
“Well, of course not,” Violet replied, as though surprised he'd even say it. 

Johnny smiled. Violet knew them all better than he sometimes gave her credit.  
Giving her half the biscuit he leaned back.  
“So give us the poem about Cassiopeia, MISS Violet,” Johnny said jokingly.  
And in her best (quiet) orator's voice, she complied.

\---

At Brancaster, things had finally settled down after a most 'unsettled' summer.  
Edith, at first, had not told Marigold anything concerning Charles Bryant.  
She'd simply, and quite completely, boxed young Bryant out of any invitations to their home.  
Further, she'd given him such a cold shoulder at the canteen that even a young man could get the drift of things. 

Marigold, of course, was furious....and confused.  
She'd really thought the RAF officer a perfectly acceptable choice.  
There were others, of course, but Marigold was more a romantic than her flirtatious talk sometimes suggested.  
She wanted to find the One.

 

However, by the end of summer she'd finally accepted that something about Charlie didn't meet her mother (and father's) approval.  
And the fact that her father was usually so unfailingly supportive, made her realize that it must be something which was indeed Unacceptable to people like them.

And so she moved on.  
This time, Marigold picked as a suitor a rather serious American, there as an advisor.  
“Let mama make something of that,” the girl thought, somewhat in a snit.

 

The man was rich, and he had heaps of brains, which Marigold admired.  
(For though pretending herself an empty headed ninny, she'd always had books upon books around her practically from her birth.)  
Of course, he was a bit older, but still quite acceptable in appearance. Very fit.  
And it was nice to be able to know for certain that he wasn't going to fly out in the evening, not to come the next dawn.

 

If that were all, the Pelhams would have been peaceable enough.  
But, of course, there was the mad scheme to take in a girls school.  
(Marigold was appalled.)  
That dusty old Mr. Blake had suggested it to her parents, who of course were doing 'their duty' over all.

Bertie even suggested it might be nice for her to have some friends her age, but Marigold was still highly suspicious that it wouldn't be.  
Besides, they wouldn't be her age, but a bit younger.  
And she'd barely made it herself through those years. She certainly didn't want to deal with other girls coming of age.  
No, older people were definitely easier to understand.

 

Not ancient like her parents, but just a bit older like her new friend, Abe.  
He'd do.  
He'd do quite nicely.  
And eventually the war would be over, and the rest of it would go away.


	30. Chapter 30

-  
-  
-  
Clarey Bates and Edward Talbot were busily working in the greenhouse under Sam's supervision.  
The old man had large, nimble fingers, and the boys often found the tasks quite complex.  
But Clarey was competitive and Edward was truly interested, so they kept going day by day,  
learning how things grew and even how the various machines ran. 

It was a soothing sort of work, Edward thought, and he wondered briefly if he could make a go of it when he was grown, though he doubted his mother would approve.  
“I think it's that old Charlie fellow who tries making eyes at your mother,” Clarey said, interrupting his thoughts. 

 

Edward frowned. He didn't like strangers intruding into their home,  
and he was inclined to agree with Clarey's low opinion.  
But his mother's friend, a thief or a spy?  
“He has all those maps and charts, and he asks a load of rude, prying questions. But he wasn't here when any of the things were taken. And mama said he has reasons to poke around.”

The boy fiddled with rooting a cutting of an ancient rose,  
imagining it being at Downton all those generations of Crawleys past.  
All those generations marching calmly on through the years.

 

“Well maybe he stole a key,” Clarey said, more emphatically.  
“I just don't like him.”  
It was cheeky to say something like that to Edward, but they'd been friends so long that such lines had become blurred.

“Me neither,” Edward finally agreed, finishing his task.  
(Horrible fellow, pushing in on their family, coming back after only a few weeks peace.  
In and out, disrupting.  
Things were better as they were.)

“But Sybbie's boss is much more the evil villain, if we're looking at things like they do in the movies. The detective would have zeroed in on that old woman, called her a 'dame' and 'slapped the bracelets on her wrists.'”

 

Cheered by the prospect, the boys grinned at each other.  
Oh, to have a fedora and an actual detective's license, with handcuffs and all.  
Hollywood made it seem so glamorous. (Though the first time they'd tried to emulate smoking, both boys had been frankly and immediately ill. So who knew what the truth was?)

 

“Too easy,” cracked Clarey. “Besides, she wouldn't have a key, and she hasn't been to the house to even nick one.”  
He stood a moment, narrowing his eyes and shifting side to side.  
“Ann's new. She came as an evacuee, so she's probably not a planted spy, but she could have taken your granny's necklace. And the cash box was stored here, too, until Sybil took it in.”

“Don't even think that, much less say it aloud,” Edward said, firmly, almost angrily.  
“Remember how people talked about Nanny. It's fun to poke around, and especially fun when it's about mean people. But Ann's done nothing.”

 

Clarey inclined his head, making a motion of 'pax' with his hands.  
“Don't get shirty,” he said easily. “I'll trust her if you vouch she's your friend.”

Edward, usually quiet, had to blush.  
Yes, Ann was his friend.  
She'd even trusted him to hold young Thomas, which had frightened and thrilled him in equal measures , and......

 

“So if it was a theft, not just two coincidences, the person had to have BOTH a way in and know about the house.”  
Clarey interrupted Edward's thoughts, as he counted the key points on his fingers.  
“And we don't know anyone who's a stranger who has that. Yet. Maybe a delivery man? Maybe some worker who did a repair here in the past?”

 

“We'll just have to keep watching,” Edward summarized, mind already turning to another garden task.  
The green things really were more interesting to him than the spying, but he'd help Clarey if he could.  
(A vague plan of action flitted across his mind.)

Work first, though.  
They went to gather more cuttings and, coming to the door, Clarey stopped and gave a brash smile.  
“After you, Claude,” he said, bowing.  
“No, after you, Cecil,” Edward said, grinning and bowing in turn.  
Then, together, young and free, they loped down the path.

\---

Late that night, Thomas Barrow was surprised to find Edward Talbot sprawled across the landing,  
half in and half out of the baize door in the main hall.  
The butler huffed a bit in a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

 

Master Edward was in the beginnings of that stage where  
his cuffs had to be frequently adjusted to keep his wrists and ankles in.  
Like a young colt, all knees and elbows. Not yet showing a grown man's form.

Barrow shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily up.  
What on earth was the boy doing here?  
But having been well trained by years of Master George, Barrow merely schooled his expression  
and nudged the boy gently awake.

 

A giant yawn cracked Edward's face before he came completely to himself.  
“Oh, golly,” he said softly, looking embarrassed.  
He and Barrow were friends, but he still felt a bit odd to be caught out in a mad scheme like this. 

“Good evening, Master Edward. May I ask what it is you're doing?”  
And Barrow's eyebrow rose on a carefully blank face, but there was a definite glint in his eye. 

 

Edward banked on the humorous glint.  
Barrow had never let him down...yet.  
“We thought that someone might have a key and be coming in to steal things,” he said quietly.  
“A creep like a spy or a gangster. One of that lot.”

“Hmmm....there are a lot of bad people in the world, that's true, which is why I sometimes walk around at night checking that things are right.  
“But we do have locks, you know.”

 

There Edward was on firmer ground, having intended to actually talk to Barrow about the locks the next day.  
“But how long ago did anyone work on the locks? If they're old, wouldn't years and years of people had a chance at the keys?”

Barrow considered, tilting his head.  
The locks had never been changed as far back as he knew.  
But only Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had the keys.  
Now he and Mrs. Moseley. 

But he did remember several times in younger years that he'd lifted the key and once even made a copy.  
Ah, those lost days of O'Brien and petty larceny.  
Barrow chuckled as the memory flitted past, no longer so painful to think on now. (Yes it was.)

 

Edward blushed and looked down, thinking the chuckle was for him.  
Barrow caught the slumped shoulders and made an immediate move to reassure the boy.  
“It's not a bad idea at all, Master Edward. One that I'm sure no one has considered. Of course, it will be up to your mother, but it wouldn't hurt anything.  
“And if it would help you sleep....in your bed.....”

An eyebrow raised once more.  
A smile now added to the dangerously laughing eyes.  
“Thank you, Barrow. I guess I'll say good night.”  
And grinning up at his friend, Edward went up the (back!) stairs before Barrow thought to correct him. 

Young boys.  
They were an interesting challenge, Barrow knew.  
And continuing his walk down the night time halls of Downton,  
Thomas continued to worry about what might come when Master George went off to war.


	31. Chapter 31

-  
-  
-  
Barrow had finished discussing the morning business (including a change of locks) with Lord Grantham and Lady Mary and was coming back with a tray of tea, when Miss Sybbie flew past him from the sitting room.   
Ah, dear. That didn't bode well.

The butler entered and deposited the tray, then exited when given leave.   
Intent to find the young woman if she wanted to be found. 

\---

“Really, papa, did you need to make the poor thing cry?”  
Lady Mary poured them both tea, having dismissed Barrow from the task.   
Not that he wouldn't gather the topic of conversation, given Sybbie's dramatic exit from her grandfather's side earlier on. 

Lord Grantham, meanwhile, was soothing himself by playing with Apepi's ears.  
The dog was perfectly agreeable to help, tail thumping in youthful enjoyment.

 

“Papa?” Mary prompted, placing his cup on a table near them, and going herself to sit.

“I can't discuss why the young man is particularly unacceptable, but he is,” Robert finally managed, the tips of his ears going red.   
The old man's eyes went everywhere but to meet his daughter's gaze. (Gentlemen didn't address some topics with ladies present, after all.)

 

“Papa, Edith and I both know he's illegitimate, if that's what you're after.”   
Mary said the word blandly, as though it had no import at all.   
Of course, it did.   
Otherwise, why would the family have gone to such great lengths to hide Marigold's origins?

But it did seem foolish to worry about such a thing, given how many illegitimate people they now had in their circle of acquaintance. 

 

“Don't be vulgar, Mary,” Lord Grantham snapped (so forcefully that Apepi looked up in alarm.)

 

“He shouldn't have been let onto the estate. I didn't want him having a job here for that reason,” Robert grumbled finally.   
“We gave in on that,” Mary said archly. “And yet they still met in the village.”

“Besides in your books they'd have met no matter what. True love and all that.”  
Mary stirred her tea, needing something to fiddle with.  
Couldn't her father tell when a battle had the makings of failure?

 

“Young girls don't know their own minds. Young girls think true love is the next....”  
and Robert sputtered to a stop, indignant.

“Sybbie isn't that young. If she were, I might give you the point, but she's a grown woman.   
“And we've apparently caught it too late to change the course of things, any way.”

 

Robert grumbled low under his breath and took up his cup.   
“She'll be ruining all the chances we've made for her over the years. Tom gave up his life to live here and raise her properly, and for what?   
“Not even a middle class doctor?”

“Or lawyer?” Mary said, smiling slightly.   
“Someone like Matthew, yes. Someone of quality and some sort of family connections, whether he was an heir or not,” Robert said.  
“And she's so beautiful, she could have made an even better match. Your mother would have managed it if you couldn't.”

 

Mary smirked at the insult.   
They'd paraded Sybbie past a host of eligibles just before the war started.   
At eighteen, it was expected, and she'd done it, albeit unwillingly.   
Then she'd politely told each and every one of them off. 

Sybbie knew her own mind.   
(She had certain definite 'Branson' tendencies, Mary thought with a smile.)

 

“I think that she thinks she HAS chosen a good match.”  
Mary finished her tea and set the cup down gently.  
“Really, papa, it's borrowing trouble anyway. The war might change things. Fate might change things.  
“But I doubt very much that you sulking and making her cry will change things.

“It's the 1940's after all.”  
And Mary rose and left the room.

\---

“They just don't understand,” Sybil said into the telephone, voice hitching with the last of her tears.   
“Georgie, you know how he is. Can you help?”

On the other end of the wire, her cousin laughed softly.   
Their grandfather had very old fashioned ways of looking at things, and George doubted even he could change his mind on this.   
Of course, Sybil would do as she wished, and he would support her even as they'd supported each other all their lives. 

 

“Probably not, but if it helps, I'll tell you that I understand.   
“I'm not sure I'd be brave enough to tip over the entire enterprise and just do what I pleased, but I've certainly been tempted.”

George sighed. It was difficult to keep on at university when everyone around was going off to war.   
There were no women coming through to push white feathers on the students, but George still felt the weight of public opinion. 

 

“Syb, you must do what you think is right. And if that means Donk is angry, then he is.   
After the war, things'll be different. Just like after the last war things were different.   
And eventually even the people at Downton will catch on.”

“But you like him, don't you?” Sybil said quietly into the receiver.  
“I've been away too much at school to have an opinion, but I'll take yours,” George said calmly. “Besides, he's Barrow's nephew. If he was of a bad sort, Barrow'd tossed him out long ago.”

 

And they both breathed a hint of laughter, knowing their guardian saint wore a bowtie   
and took the form of a butler.   
Who would, and had, wreaked vengeance on their behalf if anyone nefarious came into range. 

“It'll be right, you'll see,” Georgie calmed her. “And on that note, I must go. They've cut the course by a year, but not the content, so it's a rush on.”

 

“I wish you could come visit,” Sybil said.   
“I will when I can, and I'll let Donk know I'm in your corner, too, but for now duty calls.”  
With that and a few words of farewell, the two rang off.   
And Sybil, taking deep breaths and scrubbing her face with a dainty hankerchief,   
made herself presentable for the world. 

Squaring her shoulders, she walked out.   
If nothing else, she was determined to not look the victim in this matter.

\---

“I'm not saying that you're wrong, Robert. I'm just saying that you can't win,” Cora said firmly but pleasantly.   
Her husband had immediately come to find her, hoping for an ally in the matter of Sybil and Daniel.  
(Really, when would the man learn that women didn't always follow his decree?)

“In Marigold's case it was a matter of a flirtation that could be cut off before it became serious. But Sybil seems to have made up her mind.  
“If you push too hard, she'll elope and become a camp follower. Better to push for a delay and see what we can make of him after the war.”

 

“Make of him,” Robert sputtered.   
“Your mother brushed up Tom quite well, didn't she? Well, we'll have to try to do the same for young Daniel. “  
Cora shook her head. (It would certainly be more of a challenge, though, with his uncle in service in their very own downstairs.)

“Whatever is this world coming to?” moaned Robert, somewhat legitimately. For he'd managed to change on so many things, and this was really a bridge too far.

At his feet, Apepi whined in agreement, and tried to scramble up into his lap.

\---

“May I be of assistance, Miss Sybbie?” Barrow asked quietly, finally having found the girl in the upper gallery.   
Her face was pale, but determined.   
(She still sticks out her lower lip when she's angry, Barrow thought, trying not to sigh at how many years had gone by.)

“I'm fine,” she said, short and clipped.  
A short huff of breath through her nostrils, and a slight scuff of her heel as though she wished to kick something.

 

“Perhaps we could get you a cup of tea?” Barrow tried.   
A warm beverage in times of trouble, wasn't that the usual thing to do?

Sybil nodded, then looked around as though they might be spied upon.   
“I'm going down to the kitchen for it, though.”  
And she said it stubbornly, as though she hadn't already been down and done just that almost every day since Andy left. 

 

“As you wish,” Barrow said, not understanding that she feared   
even this simple activity might be barred to her next. 

“I've often found the kitchen company was a tonic for nerves,” he said seriously,   
motioning the young lady to take the lead.


	32. Chapter 32

-  
-  
-  
It was oddly empty around the table without Andy and Pip.  
Lonely, even, without the kindness of the one and the boisterousness of the other. 

The autumn wind was getting colder as time moved on, and they had a fire in the fireplace now.  
Crackling, popping, and trying to warm them  
and keep at bay the darkness in the corners of the room.

Bates couldn't come that night, but they didn't miss him as much since he came infrequently anyhow.  
But it was still odd to have just Sam, Jimmy, Joe, and Thomas.  
Around the table  
Trying to make light.

 

Jimmy, of course, was grousing about not being allowed to join up.  
It had been a continued source of irritation since the first declaration was made.  
“I don't see how they can say they need more men, then turn down men both in one breath,” he grumbled.  
“Fit as I am.”  
The short man stuck out his chin as though daring the others to contradict. 

“Fit you may be,” Joe started, placating, “....but twenty you are not.”  
He flipped over his cards and stared Jimmy down.  
“Though they could probably make use of you on the home front behind a Vickers or in some factory making munitions.”

 

“He'd blow the place up. Don't encourage him,” Thomas said sourly.  
Barrow didn't like the idea of Jimmy doing anything other than keeping his bevy of cinema beauties happy and going home safe. 

“I would not,” Jimmy grumbled.  
“Damn huns killed my father. Might as well say they killed my mother, since it was as much a broken heart as got her as the flu.”  
(They'd heard it enough times, until it ran past them uncommented.)

 

Jimmy placed his bet, raising a smirk from Sam when he overplayed his hand.  
“They might change the age to fifty anyway, soon,” Jimmy nodded. “Then who's to say I'm too old.”

A muscle in Thomas's jaw twitched as he tried to hold in his agitation.  
It was bad enough to have Daniel and Andy out there already. Bad enough to worry each night about Master George going.  
Why must Jimmy be so insistent?

 

“Not as much fun without Andy's pockets to pick,” Joe said lightly, trying to steer the conversation to safer waters.  
“Wonder if he plays in the barracks with a bunch of new mates?”

“If he does, it's not enough of a loss for Daisy to remark on it,” Thomas relaxed slightly, thinking of Andy in some card game somewhere.  
“Rubbish at cards, that boy,” Sam remarked, taking the hand.

The others chuckled slightly and nodded.  
“Should send him decks of cards at Christmas,” Jimmy grinned.  
“No, that would just encourage him in something best left alone,” Sam said sagely. “I wonder if we could ship something like a chess board?”  
“Not easy to carry into battle, that,” Joe snorted derisively.

 

But then he went quiet his own self, thinking of their Andy going into a battle.  
He was such a gentle fellow, after all.  
Joe pressed his lips together as though regretting the gaffe, and shuffled the few cards in his hand. 

 

“Miss Sybbie's up to tricks again,” Thomas interjected, taking a turn at changing the topic.  
“Will she elope, you think?” Jimmy volleyed back, grinning.  
(Romance was a major theme of movies, after all. And Jimmy saw them nightly.)

“No. She will not.” Barrow said with such a stern tone that the others all laughed in his face.  
“Locking the doors, are you? Keeping the key about your neck?” Jimmy teased. 

Barrow reached and filled the glasses up as Jimmy continued to heckle.

 

“Locks,” he finally deflected. “I've meant to tell you that Master Edward's idea of the locks has worked, smart lad.  
Nothing else has been taken since. So whoever it was had an old key.  
“If ever it was truly thievery in the first place.”

“Her ladyship still on about the pendant?” Joe asked, signaling three cards to Jimmy (who pulled a face.)

 

“It was of no real value, but it had great sentiment, so, yes, Lady Grantham still has us turning over cushions periodically,  
hoping we'll find it yet, all this time out.”  
Thomas motioned for one card.  
“A present from back when she first made her household at Downton.  
“Which is why I'm doubting a thief actually took it, with so many other more valuable things to pocket in the house.”

“Just that and the damn blue snuff box of Lord Grantham's that has a way of walking about the big house.”  
They laughed at the irony, having long ago heard both sides of that tale from a (mainly) reconciled Bates & Barrow during a game of wits.

 

“And the gardens are put to bed, with our slips and cuttings all safely stored in case of another sort of pillaging,”  
Sam said contentedly, taking a second hand, and pulling in his haul. 

“Those boys have more than a head for locks and mysteries. I think Master Edward might take my job one day.”  
And the old man rumbled out a laugh at the idea of a Talbot becoming gardener.  
“He's a smart one, and he's quiet, so he sort of sneaks up on you with what he's thinking. Not like Master George who let it all show.”

 

Both boys were dear to Barrow's heart, though he supposed George was his favorite.  
(A butler always has favorites, after all.)  
“Master George is working himself so hard that he'll be pulled taut as a wire when he goes in,” Thomas said, rubbing his eyes as Jimmy shuffled the cards again.

 

“At least he'll go in as an officer with enough training to work in a field hospital,” Joe soothed.  
“He'll not be a stretcher bearer or a medic, that one.”  
And again they went silent a moment, knowing Thomas had been a medic.  
Both Jimmy and Joe knew his awful times back then, and why he might be especially worried for the boy.

 

“Master George'll be a jammy dodger, most certain. The Crawleys have enough connections to get him pulled into a hospital surely,”  
Jimmy flipped the cards to them expertly.

“They didn't his father,” Thomas said tersely.  
“Matthew Crawley was in the trenches, almost as bad as me.”

“It's left to chance sometimes, but it's only borrowing trouble until we know for sure,”  
Joe reached over unconsciously and placed a hand on Thomas's shoulder. 

 

“I, for one, am positive he'll come through just fine,” Jimmy said firmly. “He'll need to come home and  
protect this place from the decades after the war. We'll need a younger mind to steer us through such as that.”

They grumbled and fluttered through the cards, nodding.  
What would come after the war with London in such a shape was on everyone's minds these days—  
that is when they had time to set aside the simple tasks of making it through the day.

But at least they were agreed that there would be some sort of future for them.  
They were not about to give up, and let Hitler win the game.


	33. Chapter 33

(Note: I'm trying to put in enough chapters and space things to transition us to around November, 1941,in this chapter...  
in case anyone's keeping track or I am unclear.  
I'll do Christmas either tomorrow or the next day, so it should be more solidly evident by then.)

-  
-  
-

 

So there was a war going on around Europe, but there were a series of 'pitched battles' at Downton Abbey.  
(Though personal ones, to be sure)  
As Sybil tried to move her position forward with her grandfather,  
and the rest stayed as much 'neutral countries' as they could.  
(Of course, just as in the larger sphere 'neutrality' was largely a mythical concept,  
and both sides knew how they stood in the matter as the months moved grimly on.)

 

At least Marigold's prospects seemed to be going well enough, and she brought her young man to the Abbey.  
And he was nice.  
Which shouldn't have been such a pleasant surprise, but it was, thought Sybil as she joined them all for luncheon.

Marigold, of course, was all cyclax red lipstick and perfume.  
(How could she have so many cosmetics with a war on, Sybil wondered.)  
Talking. Talking. Talking. 

 

But there was a certain entertainment in it, what with the conversation making Lady Mary laugh aloud  
and Tom Branson enter in with a jest.  
Even Lord and Lady Grantham looked pleased enough. 

Granted, the young man didn't have a title, and Marigold would have benefited from having a husband with one.  
But a rich American wasn't something to turn down, Robert knew more than most.

 

Yes, Abe Baldwin was a pleasant turn of events.  
A little older than Marigold, of course. A little quieter.  
His grandfather had been a store keeper and mayor of a small town in the middle west.  
His father had made a killing in coal and oil, dying just before the crash so (fortunately)  
the money was tied up in probate just when it might otherwise have been lost. 

 

“I think we might have come from a similar location, Lady Grantham,” he tried, smiling sincerely at his hostess.  
“At some point I believe someone told me you come from Cincinnati? My family comes from the Cleveland area. Both Ohio, then.”

“Good heavens. You might know people in common from back there,” Lord Grantham beamed, not understanding the distances involved.  
“Not exactly,” Cora's eyes danced slightly as she said this. “And we did move to Newport when I was fairly young, but I do have an uncle still in the state.”  
And the two comfortably talked about America until Mary rolled her eyes at Tom and he broke in with the topic of cars. 

 

Men and cars. Always a safe wager.  
“I know more about airplane engines than Fords,” Abe joked with him. “But I can tinker with both if I have to.”  
“And we'll have plenty of both coming over now with the Lend lease. America will have you rolling in supplies if I have anything to say about it.  
“Good business for us all.”

Talking about business at the table. Well, that wasn't choice.  
But Cora took up the gauntlet, deftly steering the young man back to more acceptable form. 

\---

“I like him,” said Tom later as he walked down the paths with Mary.  
It was cold now, and their conversation came in little puffs of steam as they breathed.  
But still they walked.  
(Always they walked, Mary thought.)

 

“I don't mind him,” she agreed. “He's rather common, but then he'll make her comfortable.  
And to have someone look at little Marigold with such adoration.”  
Mary smirked.  
“It will just be to force Edith to release her grip on the girl if they ever do decide to marry.  
The States are a long way off.”

“Not so very,” said Tom.  
“Don't you dare keep thinking of going,” said Mary, sounding slightly frustrated with him.  
And they continued on.

\---

“Isn't he perfect?” Marigold enthused.  
Abe was in the library with their grandfather and Bertie, talking books and dogs.  
The young women, therefore, were freed up for a gossip. 

“Very nearly so,” agreed Sybil amiably.  
(Personally, she thought him a bit bland to look at, with the potential for losing his hair. And a bit brash to talk to, but then Marigold would never let him get a word in anywise, so there wasn't a problem from that.)  
But nice. And that counted for something in Sybbie's mind.

 

“And you? Do you have anyone in mind?” Marigold asked coolly,  
checking then re-checking that her skirt was smoothly tucked.

Taken by surprise, Sybil choked back a laugh.  
So things were so complicated that no one had thought to share her news with the extended family at Brancaster?  
“I've someone in mind, but not in body,” she said carefully. 

 

“Oh, someone who's been shipped off? How romantic,” gushed Marigold, eyes now on her cousin.  
“We'll see you bag him after the war.”  
For Marigold was pleased enough with her own life to have sympathy left over for Syb. 

“Honestly, though, Sybbie. You should really try to do something with some cosmetics.”  
(And with that, she went back to her usual ways.)

“Perhaps,” Sybil smiled serenely and nodded her on.

\---

“So what do you think of this one, mama?” Edith asked Cora as they sat in a corner of the sitting room.  
Edith wasn't sure about the choice herself.  
Not only was the man not part of their usual crowd, but he was from so far away.  
“I can't imagine her living over there.”

Cora smiled softly.  
“There are good people in Cleveland,” she said gently. “A millionaire's row, in fact, with some friends of my father living there.”  
“I'll make inquiries, but there's nothing immediately off putting.”

 

Edith breathed out, relieved.  
Somehow she'd half expected her mother to reveal another grand “Complication.”  
(Edith's life had many times been altered by the sudden reveal of some Complication, and she was quite unnerved by it.  
Feeling herself half cursed, standing below the wrong star.)

“And your father seems to like him, which is such a relief,” Cora added, though she still didn't tell Edith why.  
“She is really such a good girl, our Marigold,” Lady Grantham soothed. “You've done a good job with her, Edith. And we'll make sure she's happily set.”

\---

 

"...Seeing Marigold with her fellow makes me miss you even more, darling.  
(I wouldn't have thought it possible, to miss you MORE.)

It will be good that you have leave soon. Between the two of us we'll be able to make a plan.  
Personally, I'd like to marry you and follow you to all your 'exotic' postings—the night and cold of the north sound quite nice if I had you to share it with.”

Soon,  
Sybil


	34. Chapter 34

-  
-  
-

It was early December before Daniel Barrow made it back to Downton.  
Snow crusted at the edges of the fields, but riding along he could still see the browns and greys of dead things peeking through.  
Barrow'd taken the train down, a train packed with uniforms and smelling slightly of damp wool and sweat.  
Then it was to hitchhike the rest of the way or walk. 

A luxury now to get a ride, given how small a personal ration of petrol was.  
  
The farmer he'd hitched with talked on about livestock and how it was more economical to raise grains than cows these days.  
With a few scattered comments about the raising of pigs, Danny moved the conversation along without much thought.

 

He found pieces of his mind drifting back to war.  
Even though he wasn't in the thick of it, they'd still had some trouble.  
The Germans sinking boats such as the Hood with part of the 9th already on board, early movers.  
Strafing. Alerts.  
But so far luck had been with Daniel.  
(He looked for wood to touch, but finding none in the truck cab, touched his own wooden-feeling head.)

 

The young man shook himself--enough foolishness.  
Now it was to focus on more important matters.  
Sybil.  
She was Danny's only concern, really.  
What would be best for Her?

 

He knew from Daisy that the girl was running into trouble with her grandfather, so it was that to contend with on this trip.  
Barrow narrowed his grey eyes in aggravation.  
Lord Grantham was important, but he wasn't everything.

Still, Danny wanted Sybil taken care of at least until he came back from the fighting.  
(And if he didn't come back, it was even more important, a ghost voice whispered in his ear.)

 

Arriving at a fork in the road, Daniel thanked the man,  
then slammed the door of the truck, patting it twice and waving as the farmer sped along on his way. 

Home.  
For Downton had become his home more than Manchester over the recent years.  
He'd hate to make a break with it, truly he would. 

\---

“They're going to add women to the call ups,” Sybil said at breakfast, as calmly as you would announce a garden fete.  
“I wonder which service I should enter.”  
She knew Daniel was coming, and it gave her confidence to push things along a bit.

Lord Grantham sputtered through a mouthful of coffee before regaining his breath.  
“Good lord,” he muttered, loudly enough to be heard, but not so loudly that it couldn't be ignored if one wished. 

 

“Will you have to go, darling?” Mary asked, already suspecting the scheme of things.  
She raised an eyebrow at Tom. (Keep calm, she sent him the message without talking.)  
Tom nodded. 

“I thought your service in WVS would get you an exemption,” Tom said blandly, sawing into what purportedly was sausage.

“Civil service. There you are,” Robert said, thumping down his cup with unnecessary force, endangering a very delicate piece of china.  
Barrow winced slightly at the sound.

 

“Perhaps,” Sybbie said. “But they don't always exempt someone. We know that from Atticus.  
“Of course I wouldn't be sent all the way to North Africa, but I might get placed just about anywhere.  
“Marigold said the WAAF was quite splendid in their uniforms.”

The girl played her part well, but her blue eyes were a bit too wide, Mary thought.  
What would it be like to be that guileless?  
(Mary, herself, having felt guilty with every lie she so-expertly told.)

 

“Marigold is stirring trouble,” the older woman said.  
“And since you know the only true exemption is marriage or children, why not cut to the quick of it, Sybbie?”  
Tom looked down at his plate to hide a smile. 

He was already getting accustomed to the idea of Daniel Barrow in the family.  
After all, his family was working class.  
And his family had several perfectly fine young adults in it who'd been raised by a sister or aunt.

“Well, it would help,” Sybil said, trying to look like a canny manipulator, but serving only to look hopelessly young.

 

Lord Grantham rolled his eyes.  
“Good lord,” he muttered again, throwing down his napkin and rising.  
But after he left, Mary gave her niece a slight smirk.  
“It's progress when he stops lecturing and holds his tongue.”

And the two women, one young and one older, continued their breakfast quite satisfied.  
With Tom Branson, slightly shaking his head at them and wondering  
why men had ever thought they controlled anything in this world.

 

“My office,” Barrow said quietly as they finished their meal.  
And the sudden light in her face both made him happy and worried in almost equal parts.  
As Sybil went running down with an unseemly sort of haste to find where Daniel was hidden,  
now that he'd come home.

\---

“You might as well give in to it,” Cora said sensibly.  
She was still tucked into bed with a tray, as was wont for a married woman.  
“Let them have permission to set a date, perhaps when George can come up. And we'll work on the details with Tom about where they'll live. Perhaps a cottage on the estate?  
“If you give in to a marriage, you'll have more of a say in that sort of thing, you know.”

Robert sighed.  
“She's so beautiful, our Sybbie. She should have a duke courting her, not some working class miscreant.”

 

“Do be sensible, Robert. She wouldn't have been happy living in some grand house far away.  
“She'll be happier in a cottage near Downton.  
“And, in the end, so will all of us for not losing her, don't you see?”

And this argument, more than the rest, finally worked the problem.

\---

“The only thing truly unacceptable will be Edith crowing over it,” Mary said  
as she met with Tom an hour later to review the account books.

“Edith isn't crowing over anything these days,” Tom said calmly. “She's too busy with all the evacuees they've put in at Brancaster.  
“That and trying to convince Abe that England is a good place to settle after the war.”

Mary smirked.  
Edith wouldn't go down without a fight when it came to Marigold leaving.

\---

Barrow rapped on his own office door and waited a few seconds before entering.  
He was not sure what he expected to find them doing, Exactly,  
but he didn't feel comfortable in Any case.

 

Fortunately for the older man, the office was empty.  
And Thomas sat down in his chair allowing himself to lean back.  
It wasn't that he begrudged Daniel a liaison with someone in power; Thomas himself had bedded a duke after all, and had at one point expected the relationship to be permanent.

This was Miss Sybbie, though.  
And no one, neither besotted swain nor coolly romantic duke was worthy of Sybbie.

 

It was a hard reaction to break.  
Barrow had been her protector for so long that he didn't know exactly how to let go of the job.  
“At least she'll be at Downton until after the war. Perhaps beyond.  
They won't have a son in law mucking barns at Yew Tree, but they'll set them up, hopefully close in.  
And Miss Sybbie will bring the babies by when she has them.”

But the thought of 'his' little girl having babies of her own almost sent him over once again.  
“Enough of this,” Thomas grumbled.  
“I've inventories and ledgers and silver. That man, Blake, is coming for dinner,  
and everyone will expect things done like before the war.”  
He huffed.  
“The first war.”

 

“The children will work this out fine on their own, and I'll make sure things work out how they please.”  
And with that, Mr. Barrow turned himself to the books, clocks merrily ticking away.


	35. Chapter 35

(Note: A very brief chapter with people in a state of undress & a certain amount of bedroom activities  
described in a very amateurish way.  
Also, another couple of canoodlers.  
Skip if you don't like such things.)

-  
-  
-

 

The lights were low and the fire was burning hot in the upstairs bedroom.  
They'd had to be quiet about it, changing rooms in the dark of night.  
Fortunately, no one suspected a thing. Or at least no one let on. 

“I'm not sure where we're going with this,” he murmured, turning as she carded her hand through his hair.  
He rolled to press against her more totally, wanting the feel of her pinned below him  
once again.

And she laughed, teasingly laughed.  
“Nowhere. This is going nowhere but here. Nowhere but tonight. And isn't this night enough?”

 

Her hair fanned out darkly on the white linen of the pillow case.  
Like black silk, he thought.  
  
“I'll never marry you. I've told you that repeatedly,”  
Mary said.

But Charles looked into her eyes, not wanting to believe it.  
Glittering eyes, blown pupils.  
“We're made for each other,” he murmured, licking at her neck where a bit of sweat had pooled.  
She hummed, enjoying the feel of him.

  


He began to move lower, letting her guide him with all those little noises and sighs he'd come to know these last few months.  
“We were. We aren't now.  
“This is just some enjoyable interlude reminding us of youth.”  
But she gasped and stopped talking after that, not able to fully express her argument with any coherence at all.

\---

Her ladyship snored when she slept, Charles thought with a smile.  
Just a gentle sort of rattling sound as she breathed, nothing off putting, but a snore none the less.  
Mary would be appalled if he teased her about it, though.

Blake slid from under the covers.  
The fire was burning low now, and he grabbed for a robe.  
Chilly these old houses. 

 

Charles was disappointed in Mary's continual refusal to come over to his side, but it was just as well.  
It made it easier to spy without regret.  
For Charles Blake was tasked with watching the entire north sector and reporting back.  
Not for the enemy. (Clarey and Edward would be so disappointed if they knew.)  
But for MI-5.

Keeping a watch out for infiltrators.  
Minding the conversations of agitators.  
Keeping track of things on the ground.  
(Especially searching enemy planes brought to ground for codes.)

 

Charles went and made some notes before slipping back beneath the covers.  
Mary was quite talkative immediately after sex. (Before she went comatose.)  
Not reserved and cool as she let on in the light of day. 

And funny. Deftly skewering every foible of the landed gentry.  
While revealing their secrets, for she'd weaseled out of the lords or their estate agents  
all of the information on crops and livestock and men available.  
On politics, too, though the subject bored her.

 

Yes, Mary had been his ace in the hole.  
Pity she wouldn't allow things to continue.  
Charles would have liked to think of himself romantic enough to have made her quite happy indeed.  
But it was just as well, he thought, wrapping her in his arms this last time.  
Just as well that he move on.

\---

Downstairs another younger man had no intention at all of moving on until the army forced him.  
Daniel Barrow had his arms wrapped around Sybil Branson so tightly that it was like they were all of one person.  
He could feel her heart beating against him, and it both soothed and unsettled him.

“We should go upstairs where the cushions are softer,” she smiled sleepily, reaching a small hand up to play with the fringe of hair that always seemed to fall into his eyes. 

 

“And have your father find us? I don't want to give him any reason to think the worst.”  
Daniel rubbed his cheek against hers and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.  
It was difficult to restrain himself from going further, he knew. Her father could well have cause for concern if he didn't love her so.

She smiled and kissed him back fully on the mouth. 

 

How wonderfully plush her lips were.  
It was enough for now just to explore the feel of them, or at least he'd make himself believe it was enough.  
Be thankful just for that.  
(He'd spent hours in lonely darkness imagining her mouth on him, just so.)

“Hmmm,” she hummed, nuzzling her head into his neck, tickling him with her lashes.  
“And down here we'll fall asleep and let your uncle wake us up?”

 

He snorted slightly and she giggled.  
It was not a romantic prospect.  
Rather a dash of cold water on the proceedings that both of them probably needed. 

“I'd be dead.”  
Daniel said it drily enough, as though it were a joke.  
But in truth, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't be if he proved to be anything less than a gentleman.  
Even kissing might cross the old man's line. 

 

“I'd save you,” Sybil said, kissing him again, more deeply this time.  
And they turned to each other, hands gently outlining the other's face.  
As though blind and memorizing by touch every feature.

Kissing again, Daniel pulled her close.  
As though holding her now would last him through the months ahead.  
Soon. Soon.  
They could be married soon.  
On his very next leave.

 

And drifting off slightly, they dozed there in each others arms  
quite innocently  
until a bit before dawn.


	36. Chapter 36

-  
-  
-  
Sybil realized that any sort of complaint about Daniel having to leave before Christmas would  
be in very poor taste indeed.  
Though she did allow her eyes to well a bit, standing at the station to see him off.

Yes, he'd been in for almost a year, but he'd managed two quick visits back now.  
  
(Andy, stationed as he was in North Africa wouldn't come home, perhaps, until after the war.  
Poor Daisy, the young girl thought.)

 

So Sybil reminded herself that she was lucky to have Daniel here in Britain,  
lucky to have him where he might be given leave at all, no matter how brief,  
and very, very lucky to know that soon she'd have him officially for the rest of their lives.

 

Donk had actually put it into (begrudging) words. They had his blessing to arrange things for Daniel's next leave.  
The handshake between the two was Sybil's best present ever.  
Absolutely.

“Do be safe now,” she stood, straightening and re-straightening his coat lapels, finally pulling him in for a last kiss.  
It was NOT her most passionate effort, an odd sort of teary eyed thing.

Yet a throat clearing sound behind them made them jump as though completely caught out.  
“Daniel. Miss Sybil,” the station master walked past, nodding,  
a fat man trying very hard not to laugh.

 

“You're in for it now,” Daniel muttered, cheeks starting to redden,  
but still moving to fold her into his arms.

“We're in for it now. They'd all know soon enough.”  
And Sybil smiled up at him, rather proudly.  
“Let it get out through word of mouth. Sybil Branson was seen kissing her fiance goodbye at the station, just like the other girls.”

 

And they both smiled, then.  
“More like Miss Sybbie was ruining her reputation consorting with the likes of that Daniel Barrow.”  
But Daniel didn't mind too much.  
He was reaching beyond himself, but he'd caught hold of his dream.  
Let them judge.

 

He kissed her lightly as the station master roared a warning from the (other) end of the cars.  
“I'll write. You'll write. We'll arrange it all for next time,” and in her ear  
he finished with a whispered “my love.”

And then even softer, "I'll miss you."  


  


Lord Grantham might have been wary, but he was a man of his word, Daniel knew.  
Next time, they'd be able to marry.  
Sybil would be his.

\---

And as the actual holiday came on, there was an additional miracle:  
George Crawley managed to find his way home.

He'd dreamed of it, really, when his dreams weren't invaded with procedures and anatomy.  
Home.  
Though Georgie was no longer fooling himself that things would always be as they had been.

 

“What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell us? We could have sent a car,”  
Tom Branson was the first to see him, after Barrow opened the door.  
The older man was beside himself with delight.

 

Barrow, meanwhile, stood in shock, having George shake his hand and look for all the world like a youngster who'd pulled off a deliberate stunt.  
Shining blue eyes. Grinning face.  
Thomas wanted to hug him like he'd done so many times as a child, but he shook hands and just tried not to let his emotions show.

“Georgie,” Mary called out, so obviously joyous that they all felt the burst of it.  
“How ever did you escape?”  
(And her eyes did puddle, though she would have denied such vehemently.)

 

“He's come to open presents with us, haven't you?”  
And as Sybbie wrapped him in a hug they both needed,  
her shining eyes locked into Barrow's and they shared a smile. 

 

“Don't leave him standing there. Let the boy come in,” Robert admonished.  
Cora followed, smiling, “And we'll have a heavy tea, please, Barrow.  
George, you look like a wraith. Have they not fed you at all?”  
(“My lady,” Barrow said, but he paused a minute more.)

 

Georgie stood and waited for the tumult to die back a bit.  
Went over and ruffled Edward's hair and winked at Violet. (Who'd never wink back, but oh how she did smile.)  
“I,” he began slowly.  
“Have only a bit of a break from the grind, but I cut and ran for here as soon as I got it.”

“They have us slaving away at the books, since they don't know which of us will go out to shuffle military paperwork, and which of us might actually need to know how to bandage a man up.”  
His audience fell silent for a moment at the thought.

“But, of course, I'll be doomed to shuffle paper,” he said lightly.  
“So instead of studying as I should, I've come to make merry.”

 

And shaking off his hesitation, Barrow made for the baize door to tell Daisy  
that their boy had come home.

\---

 

The gramophone was wound and the music was as loud as they could make it.  
While the blackouts were firmly shut, the family didn't think it telling Hitler their location to let loose a little in noise.

Georgie was showing Violet some intricate new dance step he'd learned from a girl at university.  
(“I only took an hour off, honestly,” he'd said, when his mother started to tease.)  
And Edward was quite breathless with laughter in the corner with Sybil, sharing some sort of scheme of their own making, or some story of Georgie's schemes past—one could never tell.

 

There were not as many presents under the tree as last year.  
In fact, the family had vowed to not have any and put all extravagances aside until after the war.  
But that hadn't stayed the case, as first Cora began to collect small things for her family, then Robert.  
Then Nanny began the projects with the (fairly grown) children,  
then Tom & Mary.  
Until finally a very good variety of bits and bobs made their way into makeshift wrappings.

Yes, it was very, very pleasant upstairs.  
And the only time the war came up again was when Hitler played the fool as a character in their Charades.

\---

Downstairs no effort had been made to push Christmas aside, though limitations on supplies  
made the scale of their efforts somewhat more reduced, too.  
They'd, of course, seen off Daniel and packed parcels for Andy, so this was a second holiday of sorts any way.

 

And as the staff had their own small feasting and presents before them, joyous was the surprise that each bundle brought.  
Thomas thought he had them all surpassed, having managed (sometimes through means rather under the table)  
to stock up on an assortment of friviolities sure to make his friends smile.

But in thoughtfulness, he'd found his equal in the women.

 

“How on earth did you manage this?” Thomas had sputtered, as when his turn came he saw carefully  
knitted socks, scarf and hat in a shade of 'Barrow blue.'  
Yarn that color was so specific to get anyway, and here they were with items so rationed.

But the 'tradition' had continued in spite of the war office.

Phyllis chuckled and looked at him with soft eyes.  
“Don't you know I've a stock of the stuff put back already? Anna, Mrs. Hughes, too?  
You'll have something from us at Christmas, never you mind. Too many years you didn't have enough.”  
And his friend (sister) gave him a small kiss.

 

“And chocolate?” he protested. “You don't have a stock of that saved back.”  
Daisy shook her head. “You should have seen me saving the coupons.  
And I almost melted it into that cake you like, but figured this way would last longer.”

“But Andy...” Barrow started.  
“It would have melted before Andy, and besides we all know who around here is suffering with a sweet tooth.”  
His friends all smirked at him.  
“Happy Christmas, Thomas,” Daisy said then, not quite daring to hug him publicly, but patting him and smiling  
before continuing back to the kitchen to bring out one last tray.

 

“And, now, Mr. Barrow, if you please, don't we get a bit of wine with our feast today?”  
Anna grinned at him, cheeky as the young girl she once was, wearing the bit of silk he'd got her around her neck,  
held in place by a circlet pin from her husband.

“We need to celebrate what we have,” Anna said.  
And the sentiment got a round of approval from the group.  
John Bates put his arm around his wife's shoulders, even as they sat there in the servants hall. 

Times had changed, but their love hadn't.  
And John felt it was a happy enough Christmas, indeed.

\----

However, there had to be a bit of sadness amidst the joy.  
It was a dark time, this war was.  
And even at the holidays, they couldn't completely ignore the fact.

 

The next morning, George looked very serious as he came into the butler's office.  
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out several letters and handed them to the older man.  
“Barrow, I need to leave something with you in case they call us up straight from university to the fighting.  
“I'd wait a few more days if I had the time, not wanting to make the holidays unhappy. But I must get back.”

They were sitting there in their familiar spots, a finger of sunlight glinting through the window  
scattering a small rainbow over the papers on Thomas's desk.  
Nothing beautiful about the moment, though.

 

“Master George, surely they'll let you come home before you ship out,” Barrow objected.  
He didn't even want to touch the things, because he had a feeling he knew what they were.  
Soldiers were told to write out letters to their families and leave them with someone trusted.  
It made a lump form in his throat and he kept trying to swallow it down, trying to contain himself. 

 

Master George just waggled the bundle in front of him.  
“Undoubtedly. However, there's no harm in thinking ahead. You've tried to tell me that many times, and I've usually ignored the advice.  
Be proud. For once, I've decided to follow it.  
“Just lock them away in the cabinet where I used to hide my notebooks.”  
George grinned.

 

“Stop looking so grim,” he ordered.  
“I have something better to cheer us up, so put those away and let's get on with it.”  
Barrow took a deep breath and complied, though slowly.  
(He's so young, the butler thought. So absolutely innocent and young. And Barrow mourned what he knew was  
certain to happen to the boy when he faced an evil world.)

 

“There, now,” Georgie said, smoothly. “We can get to something I hope will make you glad.  
“I got you a present, but it's quite grand and I didn't want the others to be jealous.”  
There was a teasing note to his voice, but also one of sincerity.

“But we've exchanged our presents,” Barrow protested. (He'd been quite proud to have found just the appropriate item for each of the 'children.')

 

“Here's a last one,” George countered, reaching out his hand.  
In it was a gold wrist watch, in the modern style, engraved on the back with Barrow's initials.

“It's not the fanciest I saw, but it had the best quality inside. You said that's what's important in a watch, what's inside.  
“Took me forever to figure out you meant people, too. And when I saw it, I thought it was just the thing.”

 

Barrow held the beautiful timepiece in his hand, the tick like a beating heart.  
Like Georgie when he'd been a tiny lad, heart rapidly beating when he'd come to hide his face in Thomas's shoulder.  
And now before him was a man full grown.  
Barrow's eyes filled in spite of themselves. (How he hated to have someone see him break over.)  
But Georgie just smiled his usual sunshine sweet smile.

 

“You like it, then? I'm so glad.”  
And the boy reached out to shake his hand, to hold it in a warm grip, stepping so close that they almost touched.  
“Now don't you worry,” he said lightly. “Everyone seems so intent on worrying. This isn't my last Christmas with you, Barrow.  
“You can't keep a ruffian like me down that easily, you know.”


	37. Chapter 37

-  
-  
-  
(Note: Two chapters wherein a character dies. Also, this chapter and the next jump time, but I've given that in the text.)

 

 

As January and February came on, Andy tried to imagine what it was like back at Yew Tree.  
Tried to remember exactly how it felt to hold Daisy.  
The monotonous days had become weeks had become months.  
Time moving on.

Their wedding anniversary was coming up in a fortnight and he wished he could be there like last year,  
dancing together in the dark.  
A bit of a tune, hummed off key escaped him, going out into the empty spaces of desert around him. 

 

They'd moved the battalion over from Cyprus.  
Through Iraq and Syria until finally they seemed to settle a bit in Egypt in the heat of fall.

Andy'd heard of Egypt, listened to innumerable (interminable) conversations where  
Lord Grantham had gone on about this expedition or that, this old relic or that old pot shard.  
However, Lord Grantham's Egypt wasn't the one Andy faced. (Even if some of the officers wanted to pretend it was. )

 

For Andy, Egypt was sweat dried salty on one's skin as an irritant from overwork.  
It was the taste of warm water flat from his canteen.  
It was mind-numbing tasks interspersed with moments of absolute panic and speed.

Yes, there were the camels, but they weren't the noble creatures he'd heard about.  
These beasts were smelly and evil natured, seeming to enjoy flinging their spit about.

(I'll never complain about the pigs again if I ever get back to Downton, Andy thought.  
Seem right intelligent next to camels, they did.)

 

His muscles ached and his brain was foggy with lack of sleep.  
Completely knackered.  
Andy's battalion was trying to set up supply lines for the British forces  
and had been going double quick on what seemed to be a never -ending chore.

 

A methodical bunch, his officers.  
They liked to stick to well run drills with proven results, going slow and steady to the payout.  
And to keep pushing those tactics forward took an amazing amount of equipment and men.  
Hidden, at least in part, by Andy.

 

“Bollocks to the lot of 'em,” grumbled his mate Randall beside him.  
From hard work and limited bathing, the man stank to high heaven and was in an even more disgruntled mood than the camels back in town.

Andy started to grin in agreement, but his cracked lips hurt too much.  
“Need to dig this lot in, then we can go back by night,” he said, placatingly.

“Well I know they've thought things through, because all the mucks do is think things through.  
Back and forth through the desert they've been.  
“Jerry brings their supplies through at a tenth the distance, and we use a pipeline and supply dumps?”  
“Bollocks.”  
And he spat at the ground. 

 

“Shouldn't waste your spit like that,” Andy tried jokingly.  
“Auchinleck was pretty successful this last stretch. We've just got to get rid of their man Rommel.”  
“Maybe this month...”

And he stopped talking to wipe his face with his palm.  
The sunlight was still harsh for it to be winter.  
Of course, at least it was much, much better than it had been when they first arrived.  
(Andy tried to remind himself to be thankful for that much. A thin desert wind in the day and cold at night now.)

 

Daisy smiling at him went through his mind so vividly that it was like she was right in front, there. 

He needed to get done and get back, Andy thought. He'd got so tired his thoughts were going wild.  
It would be almost impossible in the dark as it was.  
He needed to keep his wits.

 

This latest dump was miles square and chokablock with equipment.  
All camouflaged neatly over. (Hadn't Mr. Barrow taught him to be tidy?)

Fortunately the Long range Desert Group had given them good intel, and they had excellent maps.  
For with 30,000 tons of fuel and supplies stored in the forward area, they didn't want to lose it all in the sand.

“The Auk's throwing a scavenger hunt,” Parker said under his breath.  
But Randall picked it up on the wind.  
“Bloody stupid, this. Back and forth through the sand. At least the yanks might join from the west...eventually.  
“Bloody well taking their stupid time, bunch of.....”

 

Andy let his mind drift back to Downton as they did the monotonous chores.  
The house would be snowed in practically. There'd be ice on the windows.  
And each morning he'd sneak out from the warm covers to make up the fire for Daisy, so she'd be comfortable as she rose.  
Soles of his feet searing on a floor so cold it hurt. 

 

A sodden aertex shirt hit him dead on.  
“Quit your woolgathering and listen to me. We have to both heft this in order to move it.”  
Randall's voice was aggravated, but not unkind.  
He knew that faraway look well enough on Andy Parker.  
He'd heard the stories of Daisy, the twins, and the Masons. Even the big house, too. 

He only hoped they make it back there in one piece so they could visit in the pub together.  
After this was over.  
If there ever was peace again. 

\---

Daniel Barrow was getting frostbite to certain parts of his anatomy, he was quite sure.  
The army in its infinite wisdom had made it his duty to sit in a small station with a large machine gun and stare out at black water all night. 

Curfew in town was 4pm, thanks to a build up of RAF and army that had city fathers clucking like Old Mother Riley.  
So there were no sounds other than the creaking of ice as it scraped past the shore. 

 

Occasionally, of course, a plane would fly over, and they'd identify it and decide whether to shoot or not.  
Or a fishing boat would come into range, and they'd have to decide if it was what the men were quietly calling the 'Shetland Bus,' or if it was an invasion by water.  
(Of course, the bus was simply a 'fishing boat' to Daniel. He was a Vickers man, not a boat man, and he'd never let slip what he'd observed to another soul, not here nor even at home.)

 

Life was boredom interspersed with moments of fear, completely covered over with a layer of ice. 

Danny wished things would end, and he could go back home.  
He dreamed of Sybil now. She'd become enough of a reality that his mind allowed him this pleasure while asleep.  
Dreamed of marrying her and living somewhere on a farm.  
Like Andy and Daisy.

Maybe there'd be a shortage enough of men that Lady Mary would allow him to farm on one of the tenancies.  
He'd been watching Mr. Mason and going over the books.  
(In fact, he was much better than Andy at the books, but still not as good as Daisy, so as to get too proud.)

 

Daniel doubted he'd ever be welcomed at the big house, but he hoped Sybil still would be.  
And their children.  
(Danny's cheeks flushed at the thought of it. It had often been lonely for him as a child himself.  
His grandfather hadn't allowed company over.  
How Danny'd like to have a house full of his own, just to play with as he would have done then.)

 

“Don't you think I'd best have a say in this?”  
It was almost like Sybil's voice sounded in his ear. She was laughing at him. 

 

Danny snapped to from his half doze.  
It wouldn't do to have a German invasion occur on his watch.  
He moved his frozen backside, trying to get back the feeling.  
What he wouldn't give to be warm and moving again.

\---

Andy and Randall had stumbled back over the sandy wastes as night fell.  
Stars sprang out above them like a million sparks of light, and the night air was blessedly chilling. 

How inhospitable it all was, Andy thought.  
Like a veritable sea of sand.

And he turned to his mate just as a series of shots rang out.  
Snipers. Andy automatically grimaced and rolled for any sort of cover.  
A depression in the sand would do.

 

All he had to do was stay silent until the infiltrators had moved on, bored.  
Their mission, after all, wasn't to find and kill him. It was to gather information.  
They were too far into British territory to be a large band.

Andy would be perfectly fine.

 

But across the sand he could see a dark unmoving shape on the floor of the desert.  
A rounded shape in the darkness.  
“Randall?” Andy hissed quietly.  
Looking all around him, hoping that what he knew to be true wasn't. 

“Randall?” he hissed again, letting the slight wind carry only those two syllables.  
There was no sound in return. 

Andy didn't dare leave for the rest of the night.


	38. Chapter 38

-  
-  
-  
(Note again: May be too descriptive for a few.  
Also, the letters back and forth will make us jump quickly forward in time.  
These are just a few of many letters, and one that's missing is referenced by Thomas.)

 

 

When at last the first hint of light came over the horizon, Andy made his move.  
He hadn't dared leave at first for the sniper, but then realized there was another problem.  
He'd have to bring Randall's body back with him,  
or leave it to the night time scavengers.

And Parker had heard them on the edges of their location when they became  
emboldened by the smell of blood.  
His slight movements kept them at bay, but they lurked there biding time.  
Hungry.

Andy'd never thought much of what happened after death, to his body that is, if he were to die in battle.  
They'd had the news of Lady Rosamund dying in the blitz, with nothing left to bury.  
And, of course, there was the way everyone was used to.  
But animals. A body desecrated.

Somehow the notion seemed worse to Andy than war, worse than the dying itself.  
He wouldn't leave Randall after realizing that.  
And getting back in the dark would be nigh on to impossible if he didn't.

So he stayed there, shivering, giving way for a time to shock.

 

So now as dawn came, Parker calmly made a one man carry and began the long, confusing walk back.  
Walk for a while after using the compass to set a course.  
Ignore the chaos of vehicle tracks that chewed across the desert.  
Ignore any sort of intuition and just follow the course.  
Still carrying the dead weight of his friend.

Dehydrated, not thinking clearly on anything but the point on the compass,  
Andy Parker made it back alive.

\---

 

10 February, 1942 

Dear Daisy Girl,  
I am sorry to have left you letter-less for this past week.  
It has been busy around here what with organizing supplies.  
I miss you. (Every minute. Every day.)

Now that we have worked our way up to the line, I can't tell you much.  
If you see big black blotches, it's not my pen. It's that pesky censor fellow who reads our mail.  
I wonder if he enjoys knowing how much I want to kiss you and about the  
twins. (ho, ho)

 

I am healthy, though my commanding officer tried to get me to go on leave, saying I should get a rest.  
Imagine me in Cairo. What ever would I do?  
Now if they give me leave to go to Yorkshire, I'll hop the next transport, but no chance of that this far out.

It isn't as hot here as it was before, but it still surprises me to wake up  
and not see snow near our anniversary.  
So sorry not to be there with you so that we can celebrate.  
Do you remember how much snow there was on that first one?

 

I am enclosing a Valentine. It isn't the best, but it is hard to find some things.  
Although I think some of the lads will come home with Egyptian wives if they aren't careful.  
Too many men buying up Valentines. 

I didn't get the Christmas parcel until a week ago.  
It must have been held up somewhere.  
Still was good to get. The others were besides themselves jealous.

I should hate to admit that it made me blub.  


Thank you especially for the photographs.  
Where ever did you get the camera to take an entire roll?  
It's like a little book of our family in pictures.  
I will keep it in my pocket and think of you when I look at it. 

 

I wish I could say more, but will tell you everything when the war is over and Mr. Censor isn't looking over my shoulder.

Much, much love.  
I miss you so and wish I could be with you tonight.  
Andy.

 

\---

 

24 February, 1942

Dear Andrew,  
Barrow has told me that you might be eligible for leave in Cairo in the near future.  
If that is so, I wished to inform you that our cousin's husband, a Mr. Atticus Aldridge is on medical leave and staying at Shepheard's.

I know that the two of you have crossed paths at Downton, and that he would enjoy hosting you if you are in town.  
I have cabled to confirm this and can make arrangements.  
Shepheard's is usually more for officers, but if we alert them, you will be admitted. 

Do, please, go, as a favor to our family.  
Mr. Aldridge would enjoy a visit from someone who knows home.  
And I believe, as does Barrow, that the same would be mutually beneficial. 

Lady Mary Crawley

 

\---

 

14 March, 1942

 

Dear Andy,  
In reference to your last,  
I am not sticking in your business, nor did I tell Daisy what you'd written.  
But seeing one's best mate shot is not the same as seeing any other person shot dead. 

You will see a lot of death in a war.  
But it is not the same when it's a friend, especially when it's the first person you've seen die and there's no heat of battle to tide you over.

And now three more from your work crew besides?

 

Take the fucking leave and get some rest.  
Mr. Aldridge will see that you get enough food and a place big enough and safe enough to get clean and sleep easy.  
Also, he has had malaria and could use a bit of cheer himself. That's why it all came up about Cairo. You know how they talk in front of us, but I didn't tell your secrets on you.

Go do it to help Lady Mary, if you need a selfless reason.  
Take care of yourself you idjit. 

Keep your head about you and make it home.  
Thomas

\---

 

7 April, 1942

 

Love,  
I can't believe you saw the sphinx.  
It's in the big book upstairs, and now I have a picture of my very own husband in front of it.

I'm glad you got a bit of rest.  
Though, of course, wish it were here with me.  
The twins and I are lonesome without you, but we sleep together since the Land Girls came.  
So I can't say, exactly, that my bed is empty without you....when I have two rather large children rolling about.

I do miss you, though.  
And wish that we were waking up of a morning in the quiet.

Loving you,  
Forever your Valentine even come spring and fall,  
Daisy


	39. Chapter 39

-  
-  
-  
(Note: In this chapter, I am looping the bombers further north and west, somewhat, to fit the location of our fictional house. Mea culpa. The Baedeker info is realistic, however.)

 

 

Spring came fully on in the villages, and people again complained of mud,  
farmers again took to their fields.  
Market owners again made sales and shared gossip in almost equal measure.  
A fairly normal life.  
Except that it wasn't.

For at this point in the war, the home front had actually sustained more deaths than the battlefields.  
And those in command took note.  
While the Americans still counselled narrow, tactical missions, Bomber Harris recommended what was known as 'area bombing.'  
Most assuredly he didn't directly link it to revenge when he was quoted in the newspapers.  
But privately, many were saying he'd picked Lubeck for his first area bombing, simply because  
'it burned well.'

 

Let the German civilians feel some fear.

Of course, the man with the funny moustache was not amused.  
And his Foreign Office threatened, “we shall go out and bomb every building in Britain marked with three stars in the Baedecker guide.”  
Thus, the spring attacks on cultural locations began.

 

Yet the people of Downton were not aware of Hitler's guidebook.  
To them, it was just another spring night and a lovely one at that.

 

Violet was in the tower room, windows slightly open to collect the breeze,  
all alone for once.  
Johnny Bates wasn't malingering, though.  
He had a rather gruesome case of chicken pox, which kept him at bed in the Bates home,  
while Clarey slept safely below away from the contagion.

 

Violet had not even thought to ask Clarey Bates to substitute in his brother's absence.  
She didn't dislike the younger of the two Bates. (Not exactly.)  
But even for her friendship with Johnny, the girl wouldn't go so far as to spend a  
night's watch with the Boy.  
So Violet Talbot kept her vigil alone.

 

She scanned the night sky, not expecting to see much.  
There'd been raids on Exeter and Bath recently, but still nothing to touch Downton.  
The jerries had taken to flying north up the coast over the ocean,  
then turning in a gentle u-shaped turn west and south to hook over their prize. 

It had meant many, many sightings along the coast with concomitant false alarms.

Observers would feel their skin prickle with trepidation, seeing the shadowy shapes of bombers.  
Call them in too early.  
Rouse their towns unnecessarily.  
Then find the Germans had simply glided past in the night.  
Not for Violet that.

 

The girl wouldn't let herself ignore the sightings, however, just because the planes tended to be false alarms.  
She kept a careful watch on the sky and was soon rewarded with the sighting of a swarm to her north east,  
travelling across and down toward her position.  
“Not ours!” she called, out of habit.

Then, muttering, “Silly me. Now, hold steady. Check the exact heading when they fly near.”  
The main body of them were going south, flying just to the east of her.  
It was a frightening and awe inspiring moment, seeing the enemy so close.

 

And that was when she heard first a whistle and then felt more than heard a bang.  
Something quite large had exploded, sending out a shockwave that pushed her from her kneeling position onto her back.  
Soot blew in from the unlit fireplace.  
So much soot and dust....perhaps brick dust?

 

Why in blazes would they drop a bomb near here?  
And how could they have when the main swarm was clearly to her east?

Violet scrambled to her feet, yelling out an entirely inappropriate epithet,  
and raced for the stairs, a cry of warning for her family on her lips. 

\---

Lord Grantham was on his feet almost before the shockwave stopped.  
“Bombing! We're under attack!” he bellowed, half asleep and unsure if he was on some past battlefield.  
Seeing Cora, wide eyed beside him, he rapidly checked her, then made for the door.  
“We must get the children and go down to the shelter. Now!”

A second harder impact and aftershock almost knocked him off of his feet but he steadied himself and charged on.

 

Cora, taking herself firmly in hand, grabbed her wrap and went after him.  
Two steps behind, finding family already spilling out of the doorways already open.  
“Downstairs! Downstairs, everyone!” Lord Grantham's voice was loud and commanding, but also calm.  
He was used to giving orders under fire, and old training came back. 

“Keep together, everyone. Quickly, but don't panic!”

 

“The children!” Mary said to Tom as they met in the hallway.  
“Violet's been here and gone down to the phone,” Tom said back to her.  
“Sybbie, too. Where's Edward?”  
What with Nanny and the Tutor in a suite of their own, the children were all down stairs  
in the family wing of the gallery.  
The boy should be with here with them.

 

Rapidly, Tom turned and went to the door of Edward's room.  
Still closed it was, Tom thought, bursting through.  
Already out then?  
He checked the bed twice to be sure.

“Not here. He must already be down,” he called as Mary came behind him. 

“I checked with the others. He's not here in our wing. And he knows to go to the shelter if we have a raid,” she said.  
She looked frantic, of course, but was holding steady. 

 

“We'll check there, then,” Tom said, taking her arm and turning her.  
“He was probably downstairs already in the kitchen cadging a midnight snack.”

And so they made their way after the rest.  
Down the stairs.  
Down to a lower, inside room, well reinforced and underground.  
No mere Morrison shelter for the Crawleys. The Abbey was its own fortress. 

\---

Wrapped in night clothes, wide eyed and hair somewhat asunder,  
the Family and small live in staff gathered together.  
No further blasts being felt, everyone paused to catch his breath from the shock of the awakening.

 

Unfortunately, however, Edward Talbot still wasn't to be found.  
“Clarey was here tonight,” Violet said when she came in and heard her mother looking,  
tugging on her sleeve in spite of the lack of manners.  
“Clarey,” she insisted as though that made things clear.

 

Barrow came forward to where Branson and Lady Mary stood, having heard the girl as  
he followed next from out the butler's office.  
(There'd been a rush to the phone, there. Violet, Barrow, and now Sybbie in quick succession.)

“Mr. Branson, perhaps you and I should check outside if he's not with you. I'm not sure how they'd ever manage it, with the doors locked, but they do like to go on adventures.  
They might be out through a window and not had a way back in.”

 

Nodding at Mary, Tom left with the butler, turning the bolt of the door and going out into a smoky night.  
(Fire? Thought Tom.)  
“I've rung the fire department,” Barrow answered the unasked question. “Didn't want to worry the others, but the stable's burning. I could see out the window that Taylor got the horses loose, but when you mentioned the boys I was concerned they might somehow be there.”

The crackle and crash was growing louder as the fire completely took hold.

The groom, the gardener, the game keeper were now all rushing up to join them.  
“Have you seen two boys? Master Edward? Clarey Bates?”  
But no one had. 

 

“They'll be in the greenhouses, surely, and they might be hurt from broken glass,” Samuelson argued.  
The gardener limped off immediately to check his usual haunts.  
It was a strong argument, Barrow knew, and he pointed the groom after the old man to help just in case.  
But the fire was of immediate concern to him, because young boys were (characteristically) illogical in their explorations.

 

So Tom, Joe, and Thomas made for the stables, hoping to find nothing there.

Each man took a different approach, trying to cover the ground as precious minutes ticked by.  
It looked like only one bomb had hit here, Thomas thought as he opened a door,  
only to have the fire flare out and need to slam it shut. 

“I need to look where someone might be alive,” he said aloud to himself, trying to keep from thinking of who the 'someone' was.

 

Yelling their names, he went along the periphery, opening doors where he could.  
Other buildings had taken flame, he noted, hoping the fire department wouldn't be so caught up in  
where ever the other blast had hit that they would be slow to reach the big house.  
There weren't enough staff left to fight this much flame.  
They'd need help to keep it away from the house.

 

Barrow could now hear church bells in the distance. A great many bells.  
They hadn't been rung since the start of the war, but they were ringing now in warning.

Then, thankfully, Thomas could see a figure running toward him out of the heat and smoke,  
carrying a small body.  
“Shed!” Joe called to him, rushing by toward the house with Clarey Bates in his grip.

“I've got it,” Thomas called back, running forward, seeing Branson ahead now,  
ducking in and then out of the shed, too.

 

There was a crashing sound then, as the stable roof caved.  
And Barrow was caught on the side of the head, stunned.  
He stumbled before righting himself, pulled himself up and carried on to help Branson.

For Tom now advanced with Edward in his arms, both covered in black.  
Soot black at war with brilliant flame in the background.  
Thomas took hold to steady him, and the two men made their weaving way out of the billowing madness toward fresh air.  
And finding it, they collapsed.

 

Barrow began to check the boy over, hearing Lady Mary keening behind him,  
coming outside in spite of her father's explicit instructions.  
“He's fine, my lady. He's fine,” the butler said as the boy himself began crying with the fright of things.

Mary sucked in shuddering breaths herself, checking Edward, looking where Barrow was bleeding,  
turning once more toward Tom.  
Which was when she faltered.  
“Barrow! Mr. Branson's collapsed,” Lady Mary said in a voice pulled thin, but still polite.  
Still uttered in that clipped drawl of the upper class which tried so hard to hide any despair. 

 

The fire trucks roared in, then.  
There'd be help to be had.  
There'd be a doctor coming soon.  
If only Branson kept breathing until then.


	40. Chapter 40

-  
-  
-

“His heart,” Barrow said, putting his ear down flat onto Branson's chest, and still having trouble with the sound.  
“He's breathing, but his heart feels like it's racing. Perhaps if we just loosen his clothing and give him good air.”  
And as he said it, Thomas made it so. 

He gently imployed the Silvester method of rescucitation he'd been taught,  
although he didn't think if of much benefit in this case.  
The man needed drugs, and Thomas had nothing.

 

Thankfully, an ambulance driver loped up.  
“We'll take him in from here,” the man said, grinning at Barrow in familiarity.  
They'd sat near each other in the ARP seminar two years ago, Thomas vaguely recalled.   
(Johnson? Jenkins?)  
He'd been quite sharp and skillful. Cocky, though. Very cocky.

 

Not wanting to, but knowing it was for the best, Barrow gave way to the younger man,  
heard Lady Mary say to the driver that she'd run get Sybbie to go along,  
while Thomas was turning again to Edward, and checking the boy over once more,  
not wanting to make a mistake.

It all ran together in one long chain of motions, ending with him staring into the young boy's wide green eyes.  
“Clarey, too,” insisted Edward, smudged up, banged up, but wanting his friend checked.  
“Clarey, too, Barrow.”

 

Thomas nodded.  
“Clarey, too,” and he lifted the boy to carry him in, even though he was more than a handful.  
“I can walk.”  
“You can, but you won't," the butler said, gripping him tight.

And they went inside, where another frantic audience awaited the news. 

\---

“I'll need to change, and go after Tom and Sybbie to the hospital,” Mary told her father shortly later.  
“I'll take the boys with me just in case there might be unseen injuries.”

“I....” She turned around, blinking, realizing.

“I'll drive you, my lady,” Barrow offered. “I'm not as good as Mr. Branson, but I'm steady behind the wheel.”  
He ran his fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes, felt some blood crusting there.  
  
“That's good. You need checked, too. And the other one, the game keeper?”

“Mr. Miller, my lady, yes, I'll tell him.”

 

“Shall I make a bag, my lady?” Mrs. Moseley appeared, as though heaven sent—calm, collected, dressed (though hurriedly so.)  
“Thank you, that would be wonderful,” Cora said. “I'll help you upstairs.”

“I think we're clear to go up?”  
Cora asked her husband, but it was more of a statement, really.  
There were no more blasts and the raid appeared to be over at Downton.

 

“We'll call it all clear here, then,” Robert agreed, going to tell everyone else that everything would be fine.  
They'd survived Hitler's shot at the Abbey.  
It would just be to pick up and rebuild a few outbuildings. 

As long as the news from Branson came back right. 

\---

Now the planes that had flown by hadn't dropped their loads by any means.  
The bombs that fell on Downton were just the mistake of an overeager bombardier. 

The payload was intended for York, to their south.  
And having had literally hundreds of warnings before, the 'watchers' in that city  
had been lulled a bit into overconfidence. 

Possibly due to the surprise, the bombs dropped on the city for a full ten minutes before any sirens wailed.  
And the Hurricanes took off from Lincolnshire RAF after a good fifteen minutes more.

 

Ninety two killed and hundreds injured as the Germans took their time with it, flying low and even doing strafing runs.  
Hitting Rowntree's (which had turned from chocolates to fuses and landmines.)  
Hitting the 10:15 from Kings Cross to Edinburgh (killing even soldiers shipping off to battle.)  
Killing nuns at Bar Convent.

Having found their target, the Germans swept away losing only a handful of planes to the British.  
While York was left traumatized.  
Water supplies failing.  
Phones failing.  
Blitzed.

\---

But all Downton knew was the horror of their own circumstance, however.  
The rumbling earth meant someone distant was getting hit, but they had no details yet.  
Had no worries yet  
of friends in York. 

Their main worry was Downton itself.  
As Thomas drove carefully into the town, nervous at his precious cargo, Downton hospital was opening its doors wide to more than Branson. 

 

The first bomb had dropped quite close to the school.  
And what the big house had thought was an aftershock of the one on their land was actually a third.

Thankfully it was night time or things would have been much, much worse.  
However, even at night in town, people were about.  
Joseph Moseley, for instance, was dutifully completing his black out checks.

A scalp wound, jagged from mid skull to forehead was his reward.  
Copious amounts of blood, but Moseley was still managing to sit stoically.  
Waiting as the doctor went quickly about his work.

 

Depositing Lady Mary and the boys, Barrow began to help out with small things,  
triage and bandaging, using his aching but still capable fingers.  
Calming those who had nothing more than fear and jitters, really.  
Even managing to move Moseley up in the line, recognizing that his stoicism was partially shock and that he needed attention more than he might have thought.

\---

“He's fine. Mr. Branson's fine,” Lady Mary announced to Barrow, coming back from  
pushing in on the hospital ward.  
And the butler could hear the relief in her voice.  
“The doctor will keep him here resting. Sybbie's still there.”

And taking a breath, she looked Thomas over, quite critically.  
“And now for you,” she insisted, pointing to a chair. “I believe we should have him look over you straight away.”

 

For once, Barrow allowed himself the luxury of sitting in front of a member of the family.  
“Thank you, my lady,” he said, almost meekly.  
“The boys are all checked out and sitting with Joe—Mr. Miller—over there.”  
She looked over to where he indicated, and saw two young boys curled against the rather sooty keeper, quite encompassed in his arms. 

 

“Yes, very good, Barrow. We'll have you checked, and if that turns out right, we'll go home.  
You did well to organize things so quickly to get Mr. Branson aid. And then to help here, too.”  
“Good job, you,” Mary smiled at Barrow as the doctor came over.

 

“Quite the stalwart,” Dr. Hollingsworth agreed, bending down to look at him. “But let's go in the back for a moment just to check things, shall we.  
“I won't have him long, Lady Mary.”  
And nodding her thanks, she moved away from them, closer to where the boys were, to give her thanks again.

\---

By the time Thomas came out, Anna had arrived.  
She'd left John Bates with their eldest son when the all clear was given, then made her way first to the Abbey and then to town.  
Mrs. Moseley had told her that the boys were fine, that they'd been taken as a precaution only when her ladyship went to check on Mr. Branson. 

But Anna Bates wanted to see her son herself.  
And she wanted to see him immediately. 

 

Not knowing later if Anna had hugged the boy, smacked him, or both (she hugged him),  
Thomas came out, thankful that another driver could take them back.  
He wasn't all that greatly injured, but had been given a shot of something that made him unreliable.  
And he wasn't keen on taking those dark roads, feeling less than right.

Quite a wobbly group, they made their way home.  
Exhausted and a bit overwrought.  
But safe.


	41. Chapter 41

-  
-  
-  
Barrow woke up feeling groggy and disoriented.  
Light was shining through the window of his room, but he didn't rightly remember getting up the stairs. His clothes, neatly stacked on the chair, smelled of soot, and Thomas's eyes were quite gritty with it.

 

“You've had a bit of a bump,” Daisy said, knocking twice and then coming in  
without him even giving leave.  
He adored her in that moment, though. An angel bringing tea.  
Barrow's throat felt raked raw.

“Joe? The boys? Branson?”  
He reached for the cup, embarrassed only slightly when he saw his arms still had streaks of grime.

 

“All fine. Lady Mary went back to the hospital to spell Miss Sybbie.  
And Anna finally went home leaving Clarey still with us, though it was a close thing deciding whether war or contagion was the worst danger.”  
  
Daisy grinned her usual easy grin, dimpling in a way that still reminded Thomas of her old self.

“Joe is downstairs where I made him sit, eating. Or at leasts pretending to eat while he dithers.  
The man was coughing up soot his own self, so Mrs. Moseley gave him orders to rest.”  
Another grin.  
“Phyllis has both him and Mr. Moseley under house arrest in the hall there, at least for the morning. Quite a fierce thing she can be when she wants, really, truly she is.”

  


An image of a dove pecking at roosters came to mind.  
Thomas tried to laugh, but it came out a croak.  
And he went for more tea, with Daisy adding some honey.  
  
The peace of having tea and honey and someone taking care of things.  
Daisy gave him another pill to swallow, calling it 'doctor's orders,' and Barrow allowed himself to drift again into sleep.

\---

It was while he was 'under' that the downstairs got word of the actual bombing target.  
York.  
And immediately both Joe and Daisy were on the telephone, trying to get through.  
But lines were down all over, not even just to the cinema or the hospital.

York had been quite cut off.

 

Listening to the wireless.  
But the policy was to not give too much information out openly, so as to pass along to the enemy the relative success of their run.  
Sybbie, coming down after too brief of a rest, called in to the WVS, knowing that supplies might have been sent, or women might be going out to lend a helping hand with any number of tasks.

And the local ARP, they too might know.  
So the small group did what they could to zero in on information, before running wildly off.  
Even knowing that York had been hit didn't mean Jimmy Kent had been hit.  
And if he was or he wasn't, it didn't mean they'd find him in the clean up currently underway.

 

The city was a mess for sure that day, what with about a third of it destroyed or damaged.  
There was really nothing to do but wait.  
Though in this case even Joe Miller didn't have much patience having to wait.

\---

Sybil had her own concerns dominating her thoughts, of course.  
Her Aunt Mary had taken a turn at hospital to give her a chance to rest.  
But now, feeling her break over, Sybbie decided to go back. 

She knew that her father's problem might not be over, even if it was no longer acute.  
Tom Branson had had some sort of heart episode, brought on by both exertion and trouble breathing in the smoke.

 

He'd had heart problems before, Mary'd told the doctor in front of Sybbie, earlier when they'd talked to him.  
No one else seemed to know of this, in spite of it having kept him out of the Great War.  
“A mitral valve, he called it.” Mary reported it to Dr. Hollingsworth. “Told me it was like a valve on a sticky car engine, not quite opening and closing correctly.  
“Can you fathom that?”

 

Sybbie Branson was still worried by the news of this, even more than the stress of last night.  
Her own father's heart weak all these years and no one had told her?  
They'd have to see that some of the stress was lifted from him in the future, Sybbie was quite sure

\---

Phyllis was with Thomas this time when he opened his eyes.  
It must be almost evening, he thought, judging by the light through the windows.  
Had he lost a whole day?

“Joe had an important errand to run,” Phyllis said, not meeting his eyes.  
“What?” Thomas said. The woman couldn't lie well, not to save her life. 

“What?” he said more insistently, reaching to grip her arm tightly. Then seeing her wince and realizing, he let her go.  
“Joe's hurt? Is that it? They figured out that he was hurt?”  
(After years of being close, Thomas was quite sure Joe wouldn't have left him there for an 'errand'.)

 

“No,” Phyllis said, and he could tell she was being honest then.  
“He's trying to help figure out the extent of the damage from... the bombs. He and Joseph took the truck out and are doing what you ARP types call reconnaissance, I believe.”  
Phyllis gave him her best smile, keeping her face carefully calm. 

 

She wasn't lying, but there was something, Thomas knew.  
He swung his legs out of the bed, touching his head then his shoulder, where they'd been hit by bits of falling debris.  
And though Mrs. Moseley tried to use her most commanding voice, she was no match for Thomas, who was on the move for the stairs as soon as he could pull on some clothes.

\---

Daisy, however, Daisy was another matter.  
“We don't know anything, really, ” the tiny woman flew at him, pushing and prodding him toward a chair.  
In this situation at least, Daisy had absolutely no fear of putting one Thomas Barrow firmly in his place.  
Or at least give it a thorough try.

“Now, sit, you. Right over there, before you fall down on my floor and I have to make the dinner over top of your body.”  
The assistant cook and one younger maid started giggling, but a look at Mr. Barrow's face and they moved off.

 

"It's York. A few of the bombs hit York, and the phones are out," she said, trying to minimize things the best she could.

“They've tried everywhere anyone could think, narrowed down things as much as could be done, and driven off on what is probably a fool's errand.  
“Now what other mad thing would you have done yourself? Really. Truly. They've done it all for you, Thomas. There's naught else to do but wait.”

 

And Daisy literally gave him a poke then, calloused fingertips pushing against his chest.  
“Sit down, you. You're as pale as a haunt. The other two weren't much better, but they could stand at least.”  
“Just for this once, you don't have to be a cinema hero. Give over and let the rest of us have a go.  
She gave him another gentle prod. "Sit in the hall and monitor the radio. I'll get you some tea.”

Thomas glared at her.  
And she mock-glared back.  
Then she smiled.  
“Really? What else is there to do? Tell us and we'll get it done.  
“He's our friend, too, after all.”  
(Not like mine, he thought. He's still my best mate.)

 

But Thomas sighed and let his shoulders slump, let himself be pushed along by the woman beside him.  
Pushed into his rocker like some ancient man.  
The drug and the injuries and the absolute (damnable) logic of it taking over and pulling him down.

\---

“What were you doing in the stables?”  
Violet was looking at her brother and Clarey Bates as though they were beyond all logic. 

The boys were tucked up, fretting in Edward's bedroom.  
Neither felt the need for resting, just coughing still and shaken, but young boys' bodies and restless spirits had a superior ability to bounce back. 

“Nothing,” Edward said, frowning back at his sister.  
“Honestly, nothing much, just exploring. It's not like we knew there'd be bombs dropped.”

 

And Clarey, next to him huffed softly in amusement.  
Ordinarily, they would have wandered a bit and come back flushed but safe from the expedition.  
Now they'd been not only found out, but caught in the smoke and soot.  
Embarrassing for anyone who fancied himself a sleuth.

 

“Well, next time at least tell me where you're going if not anyone else. I'm up there watching the sky. I don't want to have to start watching for you two slithering about in the shadows.”  
And Edward grinned then, thanking his stars that Violet wasn't so much lecturing as offering a (rather) sensible solution. 

They needed to have someone know where everyone was in case of an air raid.  
She was merely offering to be that someone.

 

“You aren't a bad sort, Violet. Johnny's right,” commented Clarey, having evidently seen the lack of judgment in her offer, too. 

Violet Talbot rose and nodded, smoothed her younger brother's hair from his face, caressed his cheek just slightly, then went on her way down.

\---

“Got him,” Joseph Moseley announced, entering wearily.  
Phyllis went forward to join him, clucking and pulling the grey man in to take a seat and some tea.

Joe and Jimmy walked in next, neither looking that fresh, but both looking quite alive.  
Gritting his teeth to hold back the many things he Shouldn't say, Thomas went up to the two,  
not knowing whether to take a swing at them both for being out in danger without him  
or to hug them both, in the simple gladness that they were back safe.

 

One hand gripping each man by the shoulder, Barrow compromised by slightly shaking them both, then simply holding their shoulders tight.  
“Don't ever do that again.”

“Yes, mum,” Jimmy said, flashing white teeth in a grubby face. “I swear not to get in the way of the Jerry's dropping bombs again.”  
“And I swear not to help him when he does,” Joe added, raising a large dirty hand to squeeze  
Thomas's shoulder in return, lingering just slightly in that soothing place near his neck.

Jimmy started forward, wandering toward the kitchen.  
“Does Daisy have any whiskey to add to the tea? Perhaps a bit of a bite? We missed luncheon?”  
And the joking voice prevailed, as the three made their way into the servants hall, banged up but safe.

\---

“I am quite fine,” Tom Branson insisted as his daughter and Mary fluttered around him.  
“I'm not some child to be tucked up into bed and fed off a tray.”

His face was getting a bit red, and he was exasperated.  
But Tom was also amused.  
That was the problem with having an Irish sense of humor. You tended to laugh at things you shouldn't always find amusing. And once you'd started being amused, you couldn't stay properly annoyed. 

 

“It won't last for long, this cossetting,” Mary assured him in her sternest drawl.  
“Really, Tom, you had us all quite worried. How could you?”  
But she smiled at him, and Sybbie plumped herself down on his bed.

And Branson felt all was right in the world, even if that world had recently contained  
engaged daughters and falling bombs.


	42. Chapter 42

-  
-  
-

“We took a truck load over yesterday to help York out since they're by far worse off, but we need to see to our own needs now.”  
Joseph Moseley was in his warden uniform, a bandage peeking out from where he had a jagged gash.

“I almost could understand what Phyllis sees in the man,” Barrow thought.  
“Almost.”  
Moseley was meek to the point of milquetoast usually, but he did know how to organize a work party.  
Once he stopped blithering.

 

Lord Grantham turned around to survey the damage, the men left on his staff following behind.  
Barrow was in his ARP jacket, though it felt odd to wear it rather than a livery in the daylight.  
And odder still to stand there in it while next to him Joe and Jimmy were in normal clothes.

 

“Fiends to do this to a lovely village that has done them absolutely no harm,” Grantham almost growled.  
“I wonder if they're happy burning schools and bakery shops.”

Thankfully enough, though, the school had only been damaged on the south end, with windows blown out.  
(“They almost have those covered now,” Moseley reported.  
However, “We thought there'd only been two blasts, m'lord, but a third hit Longfield Farm the same time it hit us, so we have damage out there, too.”)

Besides this damage, two shops were completely gone and part of the roadway destroyed.  
(“Sims and Bakewells are setting up in the church basement with some provisions on call from Leeds. Delivery tomorrow.”)

 

And an odd assortment of hidden construction materials were being quietly offered for repairs,  
just in case new ones were delayed. For every farmer had a 'few bricks and boards' put aside.  
(“I'm sure I'm supposed to turn them in for such a thing. But I'll turn a blind eye to it this time, since it's just a few things from each.”)

At each report from Moseley, Lord Grantham nodded.  
“Barrow?” he finally asked.  
And Thomas filled in what he'd learned about casualty reports—three dead, two dozen or so injured,  
a far lesser toll, however, than their neighbors to the south.

 

“Who were they? The dead?” the earl asked somberly.  
Of course they'd know them.  
“The Drakes, m'lord, and a land girl they had working there.”  
It was a grim moment, Barrow knew. First blood for Downton in this war.

“Ah, poor souls,” was all Robert murmured.  
Then, shaking his head, the old man rallied.  
“If you're up to it, stay here and help. I need to check in at the hospital with Lady Grantham, anyway.”  
And the old man turned to them, giving each a direct nod of thanks.  
“We appreciate what all is being done.”

 

With that, he left them to their own devices.  
Moseley looked at Barrow, almost studying him.  
“I think I should go and coordinate with the WVS, but Phyllis told me I was to keep an eye on you.”  
The older man grimaced comically.  
Then actually acted 'man to man' for once with Thomas.  
“I'm assuming we can go about our separate tasks, then, and it not come back to haunt me with m'wife this evening?”

Barrow smirked and the others grinned.  
“I'll make sure she won't be angry....at either one of us....when we get back.”  
Moseley nodded and went on his way.

 

The people of the village had not been idle in the time since the bombing.  
While the big house had been clearing their damages, so had they.  
Bricks and boards and salvage were already forming neat stacks.  
Women had their hair tied back under cloth, and work gloves on, lifting like day laborers.

“Let's make a go at hammering roofing on. The children can lift the bricks materials a bit at a time, but you don't want to have them wasting roofing, not knowing what to do.”  
And they went out together, each keeping an eye out with worries similar to Phyllis's,  
intent that Thomas wouldn't over do.

\---

Branson was no longer amused.  
He needed to check on his shop, but Mary wouldn't 'allow' him to do work.  
“I'll make some calls and see to it,” she'd insisted when he'd tried to explain the necessity of getting on with business.  
“I may not be able to fix an engine, but I can certainly manage to direct clear up after a bomb.”

But there, she'd had to stop for a laugh herself.  
Lady Mary, dealing with the aftermath of bombs. Lady Mary even 'clearing up,' when she'd never done more than ring for help in matters domestic.

 

“I'll make sure the men get the orders, and I'll reassure them that you'll be up and about soon.  
“I do know enough not to induce panic or overstep.”

“But I can managed much of that myself from here,” Tom groused.  
“Tom. Branson,” she said emphatically. “You're worse than the boys are. Now rest a day or I'll have to call Nanny, and lock you up in the nursery.”

And he had enough faith in her head for business, and just enough fear that she might mean it, to stay down another day.

\---

“Can we put Jimmy in with you, Mr. Samuelson?”  
Phyllis Moseley stood, calmly intruding into the gardener's cottage.

Daisy and Phyllis had secretly conferred and come to this solution earlier.  
They both knew that Kent couldn't stay in the big house forever,  
and they also knew he couldn't yet go back to York.

 

“I'm not sure he'd....” Sam began.  
“I know that you're used to your own ways, but Jimmy is friendly enough with the staff here. I'd like to see him helped out.”

“I would, too, however....” Sam began again.  
“And he'll need a task to do while the Tower's rebuilt. The incendiaries damaged the theatre quite badly, two months at least with what happened to the balcony.”  
Phyllis smiled quietly.  
“I know you could use the help out here, probably as much as we could inside.”

 

Sam chewed on his lip and considered.  
Kent inside. Kent in the keeper's cottage. Kent with him.  
Those were really the choices at this point.  
They could all use the help, but which path led to the least disruption.  
(Even he knew Jimmy could be Quite disruptive.)

 

Now, the old gardener really didn't want the younger man with him.  
It would feel like a mighty intrusion, even after all these months of Pip gone.  
But it was the best course, he concluded.

 

“If Jimmy wants to, I suppose,” he said cautiously to Mrs. Moseley.  
These housekeepers, Sam thought. They always have a watch on things.

Phyllis smiled her thanks and moved off to continue her day, and to  
talk to Daisy.  
There was still much to be done before the evening came on them that night.

\---

“I swear if you don't stop going on about it, you'll have my fist in your face,” Thomas growled.

“You never would,” grinned Jimmy, glancing sideways at his friend.  
Of the things Jimmy Kent knew were true in the world, pre-eminent was that Barrow would never hurt Him.  
(The younger man glanced over toward the square and did a double take. Who? No it couldn't be, he thought before those thoughts were scattered by Thomas.)

 

“I would if it kept you here and safe, rather than this continual harping on war.”  
Thomas slammed the hammer down.  
He reached to rub his left shoulder, which was sore from having to lean and reach with it, still bandaged as it was.

“But this isn't soldiering,” soothed Jimmy. “It's serving, but it isn't using a gun.”  
(“Though I'd like to use a gun, especially after seeing all this,” he muttered.)

“I don't think you playing 'There'll Always be an England' to a bunch of troops is as much value as helping here,” Thomas said firmly and logically.  
Though Jimmy didn't always respond when approached logically, Barrow knew.  
“This ENSA doesn't need you as much as we do, Jimmy. And if there's the added bonus of safety, so be it.”

 

“This doesn't look much like safety,” the younger man grumbled.  
He looked around from their perch at the mess made from only one village hit, and thought to himself of the mess made by the attack on York.  
“And I think if we're going to win, it's with the men who take the attack to the Jerries. If they won't take me shooting, at least I could go and help those boys who they would.”

“Hmph,” Barrow said in disgust and grabbed a handful of precious nails.  
Picking up the hammer, he took out his frustrations bashing away at the job.


	43. Chapter 43

-  
-  
-  
Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes were quietly sewing in the front room of the Carson cottage.  
They'd mainly moved their base of operations to Yew Tree these past months, but the recent attack had made Beryl more concerned about repairs around the village.  
And also concerned that Elsie Hughes have a breather, having been rather badly shaken up. 

Of course, Mrs. Hughes would never admit to it.  
  
When the blast hit and things clattered down off of the parlor shelves, Elsie had quietly and efficiently pulled on her dress,  
picked up the budgie cage, and made her way into shelter.  
Where she'd just settled when the second and third rattled by.

Being organized as well as practical had its advantages.  
The older lady had a hot plate for tea, a lantern, and a novel—the comforts, really.  
But the faint rumbling of the ground went on for a long time, not near enough to give concern, but not far enough to say they wouldn't swing by again. 

 

So Elsie Hughes went about business as usual in the Weeks after, but her hands shook slightly in spite of her best efforts.  
For though the woman would never admit to any weakness at all,  
she was just too old to be a good soldier on the front line.

 

“Tell me now... what're you hearing about Miss Sybbie these days?” Elsie began the conversation, setting down a tray on which she'd placed tea and some precious bits to eat.  
(Never let it be said that there was a lack of 'style' in the way even a simple tea was done at the Carson House.  
The woman used all of her sugar for days when she had company, enjoying sharing the treats as much as eating them herself.)

“Glory, that poor child,” Beryl said smiling.  
After taking in Daniel and now considering him her own 'property,' Mrs. Patmore would be  
adding Sybbie as a sort of provisional daughter in law.  
(The thought made her quite chuffed. )

 

“She's got them all lined up and agreeing at the big house. But she's on her last nerve what with the waiting for him to appear again.  
“Not just because of the danger to him as a soldier, which is bad enough.  
“But the worry that one of them might decide to change his mind or something might delay things....again.....before the knot can be tied.”

Beryl took a lemon bar and looked at it, admiring. Elsie Hughes had become quite an excellent hand at baking over the years—simple but delicious, indeed.

“And will they still put on a show for the county?” Mrs. Hughes asked, while nodding back to Mrs. Patmore's smile of enjoyment.  
“Or is there even enough silk available to make a decent white dress?”

 

Beryl laughed.  
“We could have Lady Edith spirit us out a parachute, I suppose,” she chuckled.  
“But Sybbie—Miss Sybbie,” she corrected herself. “She said she'd wear her mother's wedding dress, which caused quite a kerfluffle when they realized it had never been saved back for her all those years ago when the wedding happened in Ireland.”

“So...Miss...Sybbie said she'd use one of her Aunt Mary's, since she must have two.”  
Mrs. Patmore practically cackled. 

“She never,” Mrs. Hughes said, chuckling her own self.  
“That must have gone over like lead.”

 

“I'm not sure exactly what they said then, since I heard this from Sybbie and Daisy, not from Thomas, but I think Lady Mary actually...laughed.”  
They marveled at the moment.  
The cool, calm Lady Mary growing a sense of humor at her age?

“And the cake? And the service. Oh, I never thought of the vicar,” Mrs. Hughes said, suddenly worried. 

“What the vicar doesn't know, the vicar doesn't have to worry on,” Beryl said sensibly.  
“He's been let in on the shock of a tenant marrying someone from the big house, but The Other is being kept quiet for now.”

 

The two women nodded sagely.  
There was certainly no need to borrow trouble.  
And, really, in their minds, Sybil Branson wasn't so much lowering herself.  
For the two older ladies had found Daniel Barrow a very nice lad, indeed.

\---

“You changed the sign,” protested Branson as they came up to his business. 

“The old one was damaged, as were some of the windows.  
Besides, the old one annoyed me,” Lady Mary said blandly, tucking her hands in the crook of his arm.  
('Branson Motors & Innovations' read the new sign. No 'Talbot' to be seen. )

“Really, Tom, he's gone. It's been absolutely years and he's never coming back.”  
He glared at her.  
“I know that.”

“Do you really? Because sometimes I think you had more difficulty with My divorce than I did.”

 

And with that she moved through the doorway, nodding at the older man who smiled back at both her and Branson.  
Finally Mary let go and let him take the last steps without her.

The floors had been cleaned and polished. The windows glittered.  
She had even secured tins of paint for the walls.  
The women who now worked here were all waiting in clusters in the corners  
to see how the boss took it in. 

 

Now, Mary might not know how to do cleaning herself. But she certainly knew how to order it done.  
Branson Motors looked like a sparkling new establishment.  
And she'd told the workers in no uncertain terms that all untidiness should stay beyond the far doors.  
Let customers see their best face forward.

And when the 'customers' included the military, let them have privacy with the innovations done in the rear.

Tom breathed out slowly.  
He didn't much care for change, but he had to admit that change would happen with or without him.  
“Hmph,” he nodded slightly. “Show me what else you've decided to improve upon  
since For Now you seem to have me under your thumb."  
Mary laughed and complied.

\---

Cora sat quietly sorting through letters as her husband paged through the newspapers.  
It was the first time in weeks they'd allowed themselves the simple pleasure of a day entirely without tasks.  
What a world this had become. 

“I've news from Rose,” Cora smiled. “Atticus is able to go back to his unit again. Which means he's quite fit.”  
“Of course that also means he's closer to the front line.”

 

“Hmmm,” he nodded, lowering the paper somewhat. “And their children?”

“She said to tell you and Mary that Miss Clark, that friend of hers we met when visiting,  
had her son Daniel ship out to North Africa, too.  
“And that Lord Sinderby is quite upset.”

Cora looked at Robert.  
“Is there some story there which you haven't told me?”

Robert smiled.  
“What, me know something that you don't? Impossible, darling.”  
And he gave up the paper entirely, coming to sit beside her and give her a light kiss.  
“Any word from Harold?”

 

“He and Madeleine are fine, but are thinking of abandoning London finally. He's not quite ready to give it up yet, but she is.  
What with the Americans practically planning on invading us, she told him he can do business just fine from Yorkshire now.”

They both smiled. It wouldn't be 'easy' to have Harold Levinson around, but it would be 'good.'

“Write him back and encourage him to come here. Tell him he can stay at the dower house or the place up near Eryholme either one. Tell him we'll have a good visit first here at Downton, and then he's welcome to pick.”  
Robert grinned at his wife and patted her hand.  
“Better still, tell him he needs to come give me advice on my investments. The enticement of 'organizing' my holdings will be too great of a thing to ignore.”

 

“Robert!” Cora exclaimed, but she joined him in chuckling.  
Her brother, like their mother before them, did like to make improvements whether wanted or not.  
A family trait.

\---

“And Master George?”  
Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore had just about come to comfortable conclusions fixing the rest of Downton's problems, but they knew their limits when it came to the topic of  
boys going off to war.

“Poor lad. He'll be done and signed up in a month. Daisy said Mr. Barrow is already beside himself.  
But that's the way of it.  
“You really must come by Yew Tree next time and see the twins,” Mrs. Patmore concluded, looking at the clock, the time completely run away.  
“They all grow up so fast.  
“And our new boys, too. Such smart fellows. Why, I don't know how we'd do it all without them.  
Let's hope the war ends before they come of age.”

 

“Amen to that,” Mrs. Hughes said softly, rising to see her friend to the door.  
“Every one of those men were little boys once, and both of us know it.”

They nodded goodbye with promises to talk soon.  
As the sun was nearly setting now.


	44. Chapter 44

-  
-  
-  
At least with battle heating up overseas, the Germans didn't have quite as much enthusiasm blitzing the home front.  
Of course that meant the soldiers were in more danger over there,  
which could translate to broken hearts at home.

Daniel Barrow was in Kirkwall, guarding the scarpa flow; Atticus & Andy in the midst of a sandy wasteland;  
And now, George Crawley, too, going off to war.

\---

“It's quite logical, mama. They have to send us in early,” Georgie said, beginning his luncheon as though unconcerned.  
Meantime, Mary couldn't manage a bite.

“You were already going in early. They shortened the course. Why another month early for heavens sake?  
What difference could that make?” Her words tripped one over the other.  
Mary wasn't being reasonable, and she knew it.  
What difference did it make in the other direction?

 

They hadn't managed to end the war in time to keep her son out of danger.  
Now they'd have to wait and worry, just like they had with his father.

Matthew.  
Her sleep had been filled with him these last few nights.  
He hadn't returned to her dreams in a long time,  
and it bothered her now more than she wanted to admit.

 

“Things are heating up over there, and when that happens they have more casualties,”  
Georgie held out his hands, palms up to signal his lack of inside knowledge.  
“I'm not sure what a GP designation will have me doing, not surgery, certainly, but surely something worthwhile.”  
  
Beside him his uncle shook his head wearily, looking at their fair haired boy.

“Saving lives is always worthwhile, George," he said sadly. "Even if I still question the politics of it all.”  
“Sometimes I wonder if they'll ever get things to rights.”

Tom spared Mary a sympathetic look.

  


“And I'm a second lieutenant, mother, undoubtedly soon to rise through the RAMC ranks when they see how clever I am at procedures.”  
(She refused his attempt at levity, at Tom's sympathy.)

 

“We're all very proud of you, George,” his grandfather said seriously, yet giving the boy a smile.  
“Very proud of all you good young fellows, indeed.”

 

“Yes, and it's bound to turn around soon. Daisy—Mrs. Parker's—husband said such encouraging things in his last letter,” Sybil tried to give what she had in store of optimism.  
“Really, Aunt Mary, Andrew thinks so highly of the commanders. He told Mrs. Parker so, himself.”

“And Atticus,” Lady Grantham backed her grand daughter.  
“He told Rose this might be over by the end of the year.”  
Over their heads, the men exchanged a look, that didn't speak of optimism at all.

\---

Only an hour or so later, Barrow sat with Master George in his office.  
The butler looked down at his wrist where the watch the boy had given him ticked merrily away.  
“You wore it, then,” George grinned. “I saw it during luncheon on your wrist.”  
“Wasn't sure you'd like it enough to wear it.”

 

Barrow looked up, confused.  
“But, of course, Georgie. It's from you.”  
Then he flushed slightly, and the young man laughed at the pet name usually used by his mother.  
“Dr. Georgie, to you,” he teased.

The young man shifted in his seat.  
“I'm not supposed to say, but my orders are to the number nine hospital. So if you hear of them in the newsreels, you'll know that's where I am.  
“But don't tell any of the others, even mother, unless you do happen to see us. I think the command wants all of the information hush hush, right down to the shipments of food to the lines.”

 

Barrow nodded. “It's all secrecy in these battle areas. I wish they'd kept you back here on the home front, though.”  
“That's for the more experienced men, probably,” Master George answered. “But I'll do the best I can to keep people alive and ship them back.”

“Back to blighty,” Barrow said, rubbing absently at his scarred hand.

“And when they ever get this dust up settled, why I'll be home, too.”  
George grinned and stood.  
“Now, I must go back up and try to console mother somewhat. She wasn't distracted by my splendid uniform at all.”

 

“And Barrow,” the boy paused at the doorway before going out. “You keep wearing that watch, and I'll keep carrying this.”  
From his pocket he pulled out an Aggie marble, a silly little token the butler had given him as a child.  
“Good luck charm, you know, so I've heard.”

And with that, he was gone.


	45. Chapter 45

-  
-  
-  
“I can't find this place, Gazala, on the globe,” Daisy complained, “nor my map at home.”  
“I have it,” Sybbie offered, getting a book from the stack she'd just carried down.  
“But I'll have to put these back in an hour or so.”

She giggled then, a rare girlish sound. (Quite musical.)  
“Donk knows I'm taking them now. I was trying to be careful in my thievery, but he seems to be coming around to the fact that I might want to share news both upstairs and down.” She paused. “With both sides of what will be my family.”

 

Daisy nodded, knowing that even uttering such a thing in Lord Grantham's presence had been a major step.   
“That's progress and then some," the cook said supportively.  
But she had to keep up with her work on dinner whilst still finding out the news.

“Now tell me about this Gazala place while I keep a watch,   
so I don't have to chuck out burnt bread.”

\---

“He looks more like Bela Lugosi than like Thomas Barrow,” Jimmy complained to Joe.  
Kent had continued to stay on working quietly where ever needed for food and lodging and nothing much else.  
("Doesn't bother me a whit. I can always make money.” And truthfully, he always seemed to have enough.)

Jimmy blew out a lungful of smoke and stared up at the game keeper.  
“Don't just stand there like a lump. Tell me what to do.”  
He'd come down to the cottage that evening not just to help out, but also to ask for ideas.

 

“Well, the very first thing is tell him you've given up any scheme to join the service—or any group that could possibly go overseas.”  
Joe glowered. “He may never actually punch you, but I've come close a couple of times.”  
Miller waved a hand in front of his face to waft away a fly. (Bloody pest.)

“But I...” Jimmy started.  
“Don't be stupid,” Joe interrupted.  
“Thomas is practically at the end of his tether these days. Don't push him so hard he knots it and makes it a noose.”

 

That was a low blow and Miller should know it.  
Jimmy sputtered angrily, stamping out his cigarette and turning to face the other man with fists clenched by his sides.  
“That's horrible to suggest. Why'd you say something like that?”  
(For in some dark, hidden corner of his mind he still wondered if he'd done a better job as a friend,  
if Thomas wouldn't considered anything dire—razors or nooses—before.)

 

Joe let him sputter and fret a bit, being used to it.  
Finally, though, he reached out a hand and placed it flat on Jimmy's chest.  
“Listen, laddo,” he said, green eyes narrowing. “I don't mean it personally. I just mean that  
he needs you to soothe his nerves right now. You know?"  
They stood there a moment, not sure whether to start a fight or end one.

“Be on his side, even better than usual," Joe said, dropping his hand to his side.  
(“Stupid little bastard,” he added in a muttered undertone, which brought Jimmy round to a grin.)

 

And he nodded, seeing the man's point, and moved back away to take a deep breath.  
Kent scuffed the ground as they stood, kicking up a tuft of grass for a moment, thinking.  
“It would be easier on you if I weren't here, I know.”  
(Joe didn't bother to protest, since that was obvious.)  
“But we are on....the same side, in a way.”

 

The taller man nodded. “Otherwise, I'd've had Moseley just find you a shelter in York and leave you there,  
trouble or not. And he'd've done it, too.”

“Now can we go back in and get things set for later? We're done with our jobs and there'll be no Cards without food and alcohol,”  
Joe tilted his head toward the door.

“Well of course not. What would be the point?”  
And Jimmy Kent led him swaggering back inside.

\---

“I don't like the looks of that escarpment,” Daisy said, critically, having everything enough in hand now to seriously take a look.  
“Do any of the map books have measurements on how it runs or only this picture here?”

She'd become quite an expert on deserts, their Daisy.  
“And if Tobruk is here,” her calloused fingers pointed. “Wasn't that where the one story said supplies were loaded?”  
“Some newsreel?”

Side by side with her, Sybbie studied things over, her head tilted and her own eyes puzzled.  
Flipping pages, looking for answers on the present in the dusty old volumes from the past.  
(The younger woman had also become expert on North Africa, as well as Scarpa flows to the north.  
It was far more important to her than anything she'd studied before.)

Unfortunately, the gong ringing broke into their thoughts.  
The women sighed. Life went on no matter the worries.  
Sybbie grabbed the books and went up to dress.  
It would be hours before they'd be done and able to talk again.

\----

“Anyway, so here I am trying to chase the dog away from the big house, keep him away from Lord Grantham's fine pup,  
and Sam comes to tell me the beast is now part of the establishment.”  
Thomas smirked and threw down some cards. “Two,” he said.  
It had been another full day at the Abbey and he was exhausted.

Jimmy, however, was bubbling over.  
“You've met me Frank, then?” he said, almost chortling. “In't he a clown?”  
Joe and Thomas both rolled their eyes.  
“Jimmy, half the population just had their pets put down after worry over blitzes, and  
you decide now is the time to gift us with a secret pet?”  
(Not that Thomas didn't like dogs. He loved them, in fact. But there was a time and place and....)

 

“He's not a secret,” protested Jimmy. “He just showed up while Sam and I were working. Didn't give him anything extra.  
He had part of ours.”  
“Near starved,” seconded Samuelson seriously. “And he's obviously been someone's prized pet.”

 

“A survivor, then? A rogue escapee?” Joe heckled gently. “No wonder they've bonded.”  
Bates chuckled, sipping his tea as the others imbibed something stronger.  
“Don't let Clarey or John see him,” he murmured. Then added “one.”

“Too late for that. If Edward's seen him, Clarey soon will,” Thomas said, watching the other men for signs of bluffing their play. 

“Why Frank?” Joe asked after a pause, smiling slightly.  
“Why not?” Jimmy said, grinning back.

“Don't let him after the birds, though,” the game keeper warned--he'd be friends with the man, but there were limits.

 

“Don't let him after his lordship's dog,” Thomas said more emphatically.  
And with that, Sam started to chuckle from his corner of the table.  
The others just stared at the old man, expectant.  
He continued to enjoy his own joke privately, however, until the weight of their stares cut him off. 

 

“Nothing,” he tried, speaking seriously. “Nothing, truly.”  
But their stares pinned him down. Still expectant.  
Finally,  
“I was just thinking of poor Lord Grantham dealing with another male of low background courting his women.”

 

Bates huffed out slightly, then studiously minded his cards.  
“That's hardly appropriate,” Barrow said sternly.  
“Wasn't going to actually say it til you made me,” Sam said back, now quite serious, too.  
“No offense to the human parties involved.”

 

Beside him, Jimmy chewed his lip to hold back a laugh.  
Something else he and the ancient man shared besides a border collie—a wide streak of juvenile humor.  
Jimmy only said “three” and knocked an elbow into Sam's side.  
And then ventured “I do think he's a pure bred something” to Thomas, before going back to fiddling the cards in his hand.

\---

“I'm sorry I missed out on all the fun,” Johnny said as they kept watch once again.  
He was scratching a bit from the scabs, and looking worse for wear.  
But he was back in the tower keeping sentry duty.

“You were ill,” Violet said severely. “It's allowable to rest when you're ill, John.”  
(She truly would have been over to bring him a basket of odds and ends,  
only it hadn't been allowed.)  
The girl scanned the skies for a moment before turning around to look.  
“I'm glad you're back, now, though.”

 

And as she reached for a biscuit, Johnny smiled.  
"Useful am I?" he prodded. “Can't know the downstairs gossip without me, right?”  
She split the biscuit and handed him his half.  
“Clarey said he thinks they've finally a clue on the case of your granny's necklace.”

“Pfft. That silliness,” Violet retorted, needling him. 

His laughter was rich and warm in the darkness.  
“Well, it can't always be about war.”


	46. Chapter 46

-  
-  
-  
(Note: A continued blanket warning, now & future, for bad things that happen in war.)  
(This chapter and the next will be a composite of late May-June, 1942. )

 

 

But it became about war again, very swiftly and very completely.  
And tiny points on a map of North Africa suddenly became the names of major battles which  
could win or lose the entire effort for them all.  
If these dusty towns fell, the Germans would have a clear path forward to the Oil fields beyond,  
and they'd be able to keep going forever, supplied with the scarcest commodity of war.

The main problem, of course, was General Rommel.  
He was unpredictable, that one; it was true.  
And the British, who held to a slow and steady winning of the race, using proven drills  
and well planned supply lines, had troubles countering him.

 

In the fog of war, he was easy to misread.  
Striking forward, leaving himself undersupplied, while still looking strong.  
Moving back, looking like he was in retreat when actually just regrouping.

The man didn't play by the usual tactical guidebooks.  
He was both brilliant and reckless.  
And it was creating havoc for those that had to face him down. 

\---

 

“It's that damn Ritchie,” Ginger rattled, digging deep into a pile for where he'd last thrown the hammer.  
Andy was making another go of writing Randall's parents a letter. He knew he had to, but the words were never quite right even after these months.

And now it was hot again, that aching heat that made a man lose his head.  
A loud BANG behind him made him wince.  
Andy'd seen a variety of deaths since that first one, some up close, most from a distance.  
But Ginger's current occupation still bothered him in spite of it.

Killing mice. 

 

Of course, they were overrun with them, really, and they needed to be killed.  
But the BANG and splatter as he hit the poor buggers with the hammer  
was of ongoing disgust to Andy even in an ongoingly brutal war. 

And besides, Ginger wouldn't have been his first choice to partner up with.  
No, he might well have been near last, since almost all the rest were quite nice.  
But Ginger, a rare bad egg that one. (BANG)  
The man was big and loud and vulgar, as well as brutal. Brilliant for killing the enemy, but not so much for protecting an ally.

And he was supposed to be Andy's ally.

Andy twitched as another BANG and murmur of satisfaction came to pass.

 

The men dug themselves a hole to sleep in, usually bunking with a partner.  
Line the thing with Italian groundsheets. Try to keep out the mice and flies.  
Try to be warm when the blazing day gave way to the cold of a desert night.

It was the C.O. who suggested them partners.  
(Even more than their recent losses, it showed how oblivious to the obvious  
some of the officers truly were.)

 

This time, a BANG and a curse behind him made Andy smile sourly.  
Ginger'd missed. Well, good on the mouse.

“They've got us positioned nice and tight defensively, I suppose, but what if the pillocks run around?”  
The big man growled.  
Another BANG, making poor Andy twitch.  
“Sitting here like fish in a barrel, we are, while Ritchie stares at his maps.”

The distant rumble of the guns some how was nothing on the torture of waiting for the  
next blow of the hammer to fall.

 

“The Auk'll take it in hand,” Andy said, trying to cut him off.  
(Just shut up, he wanted to scream, the scuffles and bangs getting to him, the heat causing sweat to run down his neck and make him quite ill.)  
But Andy just bent over his yellow tablet like a school child, concentrating, licking the tip of the pencil before scratching another line out. 

Another BANG and a squeak made him jump.

\----

 

“They say they've got them on retreat,” Thomas read the headline to Daisy as she brought him in his morning tea.  
“The officials always say what's positive,” Daisy said, that perpetual worry back on her face, rarely leaving it these months.  
No newsreels bringing scenes of comfort now.

 

“Hmmm...but the letters have still been coming through, so that's something. A delay here and there, but not too bad, really.  
“And he sounds healthy enough.”  
Barrow tried always to say what was positive around Daisy, also.  
It wasn't that he'd lie to her. (For someone who had the reputation of an excellent liar, Thomas found it very hard to lie to anyone he considered a friend.)

 

“He's saying so little these days, it's hard to tell,” she said, taking a chair and a cuppa, herself.  
It was peaceful in Thomas's office. 

Daisy now fully understood the appeal of the ticking clocks. Soothing, really.  
And his desk, neat and tidy as could be made of it, while still getting on with tasks at hand.  
She breathed in quietly, sipping.  
Barrow let her be, watching, sipping at his own cup.  
It would be all a bustle and blur soon enough. 

“I'm worried, Thomas,” she admitted.  
“Course you are,” he supported. “We all are, but it makes sense you would be most of all. You love the daft bugger.”

 

And he let the silence take hold and comfort them again.  
Barrow was thankful she had the twins to hold onto at night, for he knew  
how comforting it was to be with children.  
(Toddler Thomas was getting quite spoiled with his attentions,  
along with the others getting due time.)

 

Still, sometimes when Daisy looked especially doleful, when those large eyes of hers  
overbrimmed with sorrow, Thomas really just wanted to grab hold of her and  
hold her tight again, as though she were a small child herself.

His mouth twitched up slightly.  
(Notation in the day planner—'hug cook during daily morning conferences.'  
Carson would roll over in his grave.)

“What?” asked Daisy.

 

Thomas just shook his head.  
“If years ago, anyone had told me we would be such close friends, I would have thought them fools.”  
She passed the heel of her hand roughly across her eyes and sniffed.  
“I know I was a bother,” she said.

“No, no, I don't mean that. The admiration was flattering, even if rather frightening.  
“I just meant, I never knew that a girl...a woman....would make a good friend to a man. It's not how we're raised to think.”  
Thomas smiled. How silly for him, of all people, to have been fooled into believing there were proscribed roles for men or women to play.

 

He leaned forward and patted her arm.  
“You're a good friend, Daisy. And I don't thank you enough for it.”  
And then he moved side to side, closer, when she grabbed his hand back,  
and he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles softly. (Back and forth, back and forth.)  
As she fully broke over to cry.

\---

Things were not going well, even command had to acknowledge it at some point.  
Word had seeped out through the soldiers that documents were being destroyed by the higher ups.  
The Germans were wily bastards and keeping things stirred.

Andy knew that Mr. Aldridge was somewhere in an installation to the south of him.  
Atticus, he'd said to call him, flattering Parker with the familiarity.  
A nice man, really, when you got to know him.  
Until this war, though, Andy had suspected nothing less than that  
everyone was Nice somewhere underneath—though some you had to look for it more than others. 

Now, of course, he knew better. 

 

Ginger's latest bit of play was to pilfer the discarded bodies as they passed by.  
Andy'd seen the man some distance ahead of him leaning over one and shook his head.  
Thinking he was searching the pockets for tobacco.

But later, his so called partner had showed him the booty, mumbling and chuckling over it.  
Gold teeth.  
He'd taken the teeth off a dead man, not even seeing it as a defilement.  
“Had to keep to small valuables,” Ginger chortled wetly. “Have to carry it, you know.”

 

Andy had made some noise of disgust then, couldn't help himself.  
It just rattled out unbidden from somewhere deep in his throat.  
And the other soldier reared back, insulted.  
“You think a dead man needs teeth? Such a delicate flower you are, Parker.”  
Ginger shook his own head in disgust, moving away.

\---

“It's unfair,” Daisy said quietly when Sybil went back upstairs.  
Phyllis had come through on her way to do some mending, and paused to hear the news. 

“What is?”  
The soft calm tones of Mrs. Moseley helped her continue to keep herself in check.

She'd been shivery all day, a goose walking over her grave.  
“Nothing,” Daisy replied, stirring around the kitchen. “Silly of me to be on about it.”  
Phyllis waited her out. 

 

“No, truly.... I'd never begrudge any of us news of Daniel. And, of course, we all adore young Sybbie.  
It's just that the censor seems to let her letters ramble on, while my letters from Andy look like an ink blot.  
“And he writes so little these days to start with, having to keep it all secret, what with the fight.

“Hmmm...” Phyllis was searching for some word of wisdom, but then the kitchen maids came back in to fill the room with their chatter, and the moment was lost.

\---

 

Meanwhile,

Back in North Africa,  
Andy'd been seen in the hospital tent and scheduled for three days of care,  
resting up from being beaten. 

He wouldn't tell the doctor how it happened, just kept the story that there'd been a disagreement between him and a chum the night before.  
A broken nose gave him two black eyes.  
And a split lip swelled impressively.  
Bruising all over.

 

Still, the doctor was being generous to let him have three days of rest.  
There was a war going on, after all.


	47. Chapter 47

-  
-  
-  
(Note: reminder of 'blanket' war warnings)

 

 

Meanwhile Atticus Aldridge was in a section known as the 'cauldron.'  
The name was due to a surrounding saucer of low hills, but as summer heat began to hit them,  
the soldiers joked they were being boiled alive.  
Atticus certainly felt so. 

His sickness had left him not only with poor color, but also emaciated.  
High cheekbones now even more sculpted, eyes looking larger in his face.  
But Atticus still smiled readily enough.  
He was an officer to a good group of men, a brave group of men.

Having become friendly with some of the other officers positioned about, he knew how fortunate such a thing was  
But it was so hot that morning.  
He was actually thankful when his commander asked him to play temporary replacement  
to someone in the next 'box' to the north.

 

It wasn't a chore, really.  
And it would mean seeing Andy Parker, whose encampment it was.  
Atticus intended to make sure of that. 

\---

“One of the lieutenants has asked me for a game of cards,” Atticus grinned at Andy,  
having found the man in a dugout near the bottom of camp.  
He was, of course, appalled by his appearance, but then, Aldridge didn't look that wonderful himself. 

“I'm not sure I'm allowed to,” Andy said quietly, looking down.  
He seemed nervous and sunken in, his first day out of hospital.  
And the big fellow who was his partner, looked sullen and nervous, too.  
Well, thought Atticus, we've been on pins and needles forever it seems waiting for the Germans to start in again.

 

“Do come, Andy. He's a good man, Teddy. Won't hold to rules and regs for one night of cards.”  
Atticus almost forced Parker up, cajoling him outside.  
It was now afternoon, and the sweat and grit would soon give way to the chill of dark.  
Aldridge had permission to bunk in with this group for a few days before his return.  
And he intended to make a trip of it. 

For a change of sync is sometimes as good as a change of location.  
Or at least that was what he was trying to fool himself into tonight.

 

“I'm rubbish at cards,” Andy finally managed to mutter after they'd walked a bit.  
“I remember,” replied Atticus, smiling. “But we won't take you for all your cash.  
“I just wanted to see a face from home, since I had to come up any way.”

\---

In the officer's mess hole there was a table, benches and a tent on top.  
It was small, of course, fourteen by ten, and ten feet deep.  
Atticus and the rest were very 'hail fellow well met,' but Andy, usually gregarious,  
felt awkward and alone. 

Beneath them, a shielded lantern threw light, and seeing the battery marked “Oldham & Sons, Denton, Manchester,” almost made Andy weep, thinking of home.  
Barrow was from Manchester.  
And Andy wondered at a world in which simple things like batteries could find themselves so far away from where they came from. (He was so far away, himself.)

 

“Are you in, then?” Atticus nudged him gently, smiling.  
“Yes, two...please.” And the others chuckled at his quiet, polite tone.  
“Have some tea, won't you?” offered the one Atticus had called Teddy. “I've a store of the 'good stuff,' not compo.”  
They nodded and joked, studied their cards and placed bets, just like a night at Downton.  
And slowly, Andy felt himself begin to relax.

Of course, that was when the attack started.

\---

His mouth and ears full of sand as they ducked for cover—that was Andy's first impression.  
That they were getting far more thrown at them at once than he'd ever seen was his next.

Out on the flat desert floor, he could hear explosions and screams as Rommel's troops made what appeared to be a full on attack.  
They'd expected this, somewhat, an attack at the more northern end of their line, but they hadn't thought it would be tonight. 

 

The men scrambled out of the pit. To the west of their location was a churning field of sand, shell holes opening and refilling with each explosion. Blown and refilled.  
Everyone who was not wounded had automatically grabbed weapons, keeping them clinched and firing in ratatat bursts.  
An onslaught of noise.  
A barrage of confusion along with explosives.

“Comm tent, follow us,” yelled Teddy.  
And Atticus pulled Andy along, though Parker attempted to yell that he needed to get back with his line.  
“They need us. Fall in,” Atticus called back insistently, so Andy did just that, though uneasily.  
For in a way by helping the officers, wasn't he taking himself away from the thick of the fight?

Any arguments were useless, though.  
Andy ran, clutching slightly at the pain in his side from broken ribs still healing.  
Wheezing, he made it to the tent.

And found there a level of organized chaos that amounted to an oasis of calm.

Dispassionately over top of bombs still screaming outside, the voice of the signalers ran,  
sending out communications.  
That heady rush of adrenaline speeding their words up only slightly, so great was their self possession.  
Men barked directives to runners and received information in turn.

 

Not very far away, the world was bloodshed and bombs, but here was a modicum of control.  
“Rommel's started in on us, and we're ready,” Teddy grinned at Atticus.  
“Sorry you have to join us just at the wrong time, old man, but we'll put you straight to use.”

Atticus nodded. “Glad to be of service. And Parker can fix just about anything, you know, in case that radio your boss is bashing on needs attention.”  
The two laughed gently, as though stopping in the midst of cricket.  
“Andy, let me introduce you to a brigadier,” Teddy said. “Keep your mouth shut and nod yes, then fix the nice man's toy for him and you might get a promotion.”

Andy nodded vigorously, as Teddy and Atticus pulled him into the swirl.

\---

By the next day of it, it was more obvious that Rommel was hitting harder to the south.  
And though they needed him in their box position, too, Atticus was released to go back to his.  
Andy, especially, was sad to see the man go.  
“You've been good to me, Atticus, and I wanted to thank you.”

Andy'd brushed the lock of hair from his eyes and looked at the other man earnestly.  
“A life saver, really.”

Andy was at least for now safely kipped with the comm staff, more a man about work than a real position, but protected as much as one could be in a battle zone.  
Atticus snorted, and rubbed a bristling cheek.  
“When this is over, we'll have a proper drink and a game somewhere, what?”  
And nodding, he went back south to continue the fight. 

 

It was a brutal fight, too.  
Rommel not only had swept around the British line and back up behind, but he now needed to punch through the very middle of their encampments if he were to keep any supplies coming at all.  
And Aldridge's men were in the middle.

It was while Atticus was gone north that Rommel had pummeled them from the west.  
Now having made a great looping advance down and around,  
Rommel pummeled it again from the reverse side  
just as Aldridge came back.

And the men in that box, out of ammunition for their 25 pounders, were running low on options  
now cut off from supplies themselves.  
The path from the north that Aldridge had traversed just hours prior was gone, taken, captured.  
As was any link to the south.

And it became some macabre dance with death as Rommel made his way through the mines on the east side of the British encampment, squeezing them.

Any planned help from allies delayed.

 

Valiantly the British held out, fighting until they could fight no more.  
Not so much admitting defeat as having it forced upon them.  
Atticus and his fellow soldiers were lost, dead, surrendered.

And with Rommel successfully overcoming their box, one by one up and down the line other boxes began to fall.


	48. Chapter 48

-  
-  
-  
It was not news that any family wanted to hear, and the Crawleys felt it keenly enough.  
Their Rose was dear to them all, as was Atticus, and they immediately made plans  
to extend sympathies to the Aldridge family, lending what support they could.

 

“We'll be up and back in the week, and I don't want to hear of you two getting into any trouble,” Anna said fiercely as she clipped back and forth across the room.  
Packing was still a bother, even though she could do it almost by rote, her two boys standing watch from the door.

Anna and Mr. Bates, of course, would be going with the Crawleys, which meant their sons would be left back at Downton.  
And Anna was in no mood for tricks.

 

“You'll stay in the nursery area, too old or not. And I do mean stay.”  
She glared at Clarey.  
“I'll get the full report when I get back, never you mind.”

“We'll be fine, mum. You've had to go before and there's been no mayhem.”  
Johnny knew his mother was especially worried, what with Clarey's recent brush, but, really.  
They'd never lost him entirely...yet.

 

“Hmmm...” Anna said skeptically, but she patted John's cheek as she went past.  
Tucking in the last of her things, she went back by Clarey this time, grabbing him into a  
half embrace with her left arm, and swatting his bum hard with her right.  
“Behave.”

Johnny came up and joined the hug.  
“We promise. Right, Clarey?”  
“Yes,” Clarey grinned. “I promise, too.”

\---

 

A few days before, Lord Sinderby had received word that Atticus was 'missing, presumed Dead' in a telegram.  
The army was falling back and reforming which made such notifications somewhat less orderly than usually the case.  
The battle news was already old. His son already long gone.

 

It was devastating to the old man to think of them blithely unaware while Atticus lay dead on some foreign field.

Still, when the message came, Daniel Aldridge had taken the 'presumed dead' as a given,  
feeling in his bones the truth of it.  
Tearing at his clothes and beginning immediately to pray.  
(“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, the Judge of truth.”)

His wife, however, had seized on the word 'missing,' and had tried to argue the need for Hope.  
They shouldn't begin mourning until they had the certainty of it.  
Argued they needed more time, more investigation, more clarity before she'd give up on her only son.

 

There was no body, of course.  
So holding his grief in check as best he could,  
Lord Sinderby had agreed to take time and make calls to the Ministry, if it would calm his wife.  
But the response came back the same.  
(Added details of the battle confirming the worst in his mind, but he wouldn't burden Rachel with that. The images were too dark for his mind already.)

 

And he'd notified the near and extended family of the sad news.  
Which was why it was already into July by the time the Crawleys were starting their trip.

\---

Cora tried to explain to Robert what shiva and the Kaddish were ahead of time.  
(Sighing when he called it a bit 'Johnny foreigner.' Would her husband really never change?)

Yet, Robert liked Atticus and absolutely adored darling Rose.  
So he insisted they pay their respects, however those respects needed to be paid.  
Even in another language and in a way he didn't understand.

 

The visit would be of short duration, Aunt Mary had assured Sybil.  
They'd been planning the Wedding already when the news came, with Daniel's orders for leave scheduled to come up.  
The dress was unpacked, the church scheduled, various delicate bits debated and set.

“We'll be up and back, but we must go really,” Mary'd said calmly.  
“And your young man isn't coming for a while.”  
She'd seemed reassuring about the entire thing, but Sybil was quite worried still.

The young woman was not about to put her wedding off to the 'next leave' again.

 

“We'll both stay back, Sybbie and I, so we can greet the Barrows when they arrive," Tom Branson suggested.<  
"Just in case they do come in before you'd be home.”  
And Sybbie, knowing the family wanted him with them, hugged her father for (of course) putting her first. 

“I really do have to stay back, Aunt Mary. And surely the Aldridges won't be put off if daddy does, too.”

Her wide blue eyes and pleading voice quite won the day.

 

“No, I suppose,” Mary agreed, slowly, running the various scenarios through her mind.  
“Rose knows your father well, of course, but the others don't.  
“Besides, if your future in laws do come before we get back, Tom must be on hand to greet them.”  
She looked at him, smirking slightly at his discomfiture.  
“Though we'll try our best to be back before then, so that we all can go as one.”

\---

Travel now certainly wasn't like the old days.  
The trip to Canningford hadn't been an easy one,  
and when they finally arrived, the gathering felt exceedingly tense.

 

At that moment, Lord and Lady Grantham mainly were trying to stay out of the line of fire between the Adridges.  
For it was only after arriving that they realized the decision to begin sitting shiva  
had been Lord Sinderby's alone, and was still without the agreement of his wife.  
Observant as she was, traditional as she was, Rachel both agreed her husband was the head of the home  
and yet did not think him omnipotent.

He had the right to make the final decision, and yet his decision, to her mind, was Wrong.

 

“Mother Aldridge won't be calmed,” Rose said to her cousins, speaking slowly as though the words came from a great distance.  
Looking pale and wan.  
“I'm afraid they'll tear each other apart with the grief.”

The Crawleys and her father Shrimpy were standing next to her on the far side of the room,  
distant enough to give the Aldridges some privacy as Rachel made what sounded like another cutting remark.  
“She just can't accept that he's actually...dead.”  
Rose's voice cracked a bit on the last word, but her eyes remained dry.

 

Cora patted her arm and tutted gently.  
“The grief is too strong,” the older woman said knowingly. “As I'm sure it is for you, sweetheart.”  
(The death of a child could split apart a husband and wife.  
But her focus was not the Aldridges, but Rose. Their Rose who needed them now.)

“Can we do anything for you?” Mary asked, trying to think of something practical.  
She knew herself that it would take a very long time for such a shock to wear off.  
(Rose might have known the blow might fall—it being war time. But she still could never have really expected someone so young and vital to die. )

“Everyone's being so nice. There's nothing for it, really. We've people around, and the children...  
"The poor children,” here she lost her train of thought.

They held an awkward silence for a moment, not knowing how to respond the thought.  
So many children, indeed.

 

“I'm not sure we're much help for this,” Robert finally added, nodding to Shrimpy.  
“And it might be making things worse with us pushing in.”  
Another muffled exchange between the Aldridges, raised the tension yet again, proving his point.

“We'll leave soon enough, our Sybil's young man is coming in, and there's the wedding....”  
His voice trailed off, not wanting to talk any further of happy events in this veil of tears.

 

For the new widow was now finally crying.  
And as Rose felt tears starting to fall, she made a half way apology.  
“I can remember our wedding, mine and Atticus. The problems. The beautiful way it finally was.”  
She took a deep breath and tried to square her shoulders.  
“So sorry to rain on Sybil's day.”

 

“Oh, darling, no one thought of that at all,” Cora said gently.  
“In fact, she feels sorry to hold a wedding so soon to your grief. But it's the only time Daniel will be in, and we have to accommodate that.”  
The older woman again patted Rose's arm and moved close, while beside her Robert rumbled quietly under his breath.  
“She felt it sharply, you know. It was your loss, but it could have been her Daniel or our George.”

“We're just so sad for you all that it Atticus,” Robert added.  
“I had so hoped we'd come through this unscathed.”


	49. Chapter 49

-  
-  
-

Meanwhile, at the same time most of the family were paying their Last condolences,  
two wedding guests were already in residence.  
Or at least close to in residence.  
Margaret Barrow and her thin, wizened mother were at the Carson Cottage as of the night before.

Now, the women had been invited to the Abbey as guests.  
Branson had almost insisted on it when he greeted them upon their arrival in town.  
(Tom and Mary had firmly fought for this point almost from the start,  
with Lord Grantham finally concurring.)

However, the elder Mrs. Barrow, using her age and infirmities as a shield, had decided that they'd be  
best off just meeting with her grandson's in laws in neutral territory,  
at the wedding and the luncheon at the schoolhouse after.

 

Sybil gently tried to argue their case until Mrs. Hughes wisely intervened.  
“Now, Miss Sybbie, you'll want to all stay friends for a long time coming. Let them be comfortable while they're here.  
“Margaret and I already have an acquaintance from her visit here a while back.  
“And Mrs. Barrow and I are of an age, so we've got a lot in common there.”

So Tom and his daughter gave way, and in her usual calm way,  
Elsie Hughes arranged things for the best.

 

Let the Barrows win this first round.  
Branson, of course, trusted Mrs. Hughes implicitly, though  
he knew Mary would not be pleased upon her return.

Yet that bump in plans soon was displaced by one worse.

\---

“The groom is officially held up at a train derailment,” Thomas said drily,  
sitting in Mrs. Hughes's parlor the next day.  
His sister snorted inelegantly. “That boy!”  
He'd come down from the Abbey with the news, leaving Daisy and Phyllis in charge of calming the bride.  
(It wouldn't be an easy task.)

“It's not as though it's his choice, Mags,” Thomas said, chiding.

 

It was odd for Barrow to be sitting with his 'family' in the Carson cottage.  
He'd really given them up for dead in earlier years of it, had only barely come to grips with their re-emergence into his life after his father's death.  
Except for Daniel.  
With his nephew, there was no Past still ghosting in to intrude.

“Now never you mind,” Mrs. Hughes said firmly, nodding at Thomas.  
(She was as much family, the thought skittered through his mind. She belongs.)  
“He'll get here in time if he has to walk it. These young men.  
“And in the meantime, we'll just keep ourselves calm and busy—an eye out on those girls preparing the feast.”

 

“Those Philpotts girls are a marvel,” agreed the elder Mrs. Barrow,  
as she and Mrs. Hughes shared a smile.  
Thank heavens for Mrs. Hughes, Thomas breathed out a bit in relief,  
feeling his worry reduced just a bit.

This union might be possible, after all.

Sybil Branson, however, was not allowing herself to feel even the slightest relief.

\---

True, by the next day, she should have done.

For by then the Crawleys had come back from Canningford  
and That at least should have been a weight off the young woman's mind.  
However, it had increased rather than eased the strain.

For with them, the Pelhams found their way to the Abbey.  
And Aunt Edith and Mary weren't a mix to ever make things calm and light.

 

The nattering began almost at once.  
“Perhaps there's still hope Atticus is alive,” her Aunt Edith had tried.  
“Really, Edith. It's 'presumed captured' when there's hope.” Mary drawled it with the  
same irritated tone she'd used since they were young adults.  
(Hadn't her sister any sense at all?)

 

Their conversation was playing at counterpoint to a squabble between Marigold and her brother.  
Two battling pairs of siblings both overlaid.  
(How glad Sybil was when Robert finally followed his grandfather on a walk.)

Still, even with that, all Sybil could think of was how she'd wished  
she'd just eloped.

Sybil was usually calm. She was usually pleasant. She was usually sweet.  
But today, Sybil was definitely on the edge.  
(And her aunts continued to battle on.)

 

Taking deep breaths, the girl tried to clear her mind (Daniel's missing, we've a cloud of death)  
and just think about the bird singing outside the window. (The aunts are arguing. George isn't here.)  
Just ignore all the tension inside and....

“Well, he could be just missing, if there's no body,” Aunt Edith droned on and on  
with the impossible notion. (Couldn't she stop talking about Atticus?)

And finally,  
“Do you really want to wear Aunt Mary's dress, what with her first husband dying so closely after?” Marigold piped up, at her side.  
“Isn't that rather dooming things from the start?”

Mary gasped, and Sybil's very LAST nerve was snapped.

 

She flared at her Aunt Edith, “I don't care what happened with Marigold's father, Atticus isn't missing. He's DEAD.”  
Then rounding on her cousin: “And, no, the dress won't bring me bad luck. Daddy said Matthew was quite a wonderful man.  
Every bit the romance he had with my mother.”

And for no good reason, she turned to Aunt Mary, too. “And I don't really care what....”  
Sybil blinked at her Aunt Mary, whose mouth had popped open.

 

It took the girl a moment to look from one blank face to another to wind down her outburst and stop.  
What?  
Aunt Edith had gone quite pale.  
What?  
Had they really never seen her angry before?  
(She normally didn't explode, true, but....)

 

“Sybbie, why would you say papa was missing in the war? He wasn't, you know. He fought, but they came through quite right.”  
Marigold looked puzzled, and well she might, as Sybil wound back through her mind what had come out of her mouth.

Perhaps she wasn't really of a higher class at all.  
(No wonder she loved Barrow's ancient mother.)  
Sybbie certainly hadn't managed to censor what came off her tongue.  
Oh, golly.

 

“I must have heard it wrong, then,” she vamped, a poor liar looking for a simple enough lie to work.  
“I thought someone had said he did.”  
“I apologize. I'm just out of sorts, and I'm being foolish.”  
She looked at Marigold.  
“But Aunt Mary's dress is fine, as far as I'm concerned. After all, I could have tried granny's, too, but wanted this one.”

“And I'm just worried about Daniel arriving in time.”

 

Marigold seemed to take the last explanation as best.  
“Of course,” she said, trying to sound gracious and grown up.  
“Though perhaps you could brighten things with some lipstick, you know?”  
And in order to keep them moving beyond her gaffe, Sybil agreed more heartily than she ever might have before,  
taking her cousin up to their rooms to try what she might.

Leaving Mary and Edith to argue alone.


	50. Chapter 50

-  
-  
-

Of course he arrived—a bit unkempt, very aggravated by the delay, but he arrived.  
He was Sybil's hero, after all. Adoring, handsome, and strong.  
He'd come riding in on his white horse (the 10.15 train, actually),  
ready to sweep her off to the alter the next day.

“Here the army finally lets me free, and I have only two days left to tarry,” Daniel said—a bit disgusted--as he and Sybil walked out under the trees to escape the sun.  
(He couldn't maintain too much anger when she was by his side, however.)  
Sybil laughed, finally happy.  
“Well, you made it for the important part, and I'm very glad you did.”

(“Every moment is an important part,” he murmured, leaning to kiss her. “Every moment I can be with you.”)

 

“I've not been at my best. You might want to change your mind on this whole thing and run.”  
Yet she was so relieved to see him that she was almost giddy with it,  
no longer even buried in her sense of guilt.

“Hmmm...” Daniel said, as though considering, but went in for another kiss.  
She laughed. Giddy, truly.  
(Hoping not to tempt fate by being this happy.)

 

“Wedding tomorrow, followed by the luncheon. Your mother, by the way, is lovely,  
though keeping very quiet.  
“And your granny is quite the card.” Sybil widened her eyes slightly.  
Daniel looked at her, trying to see if there was any hidden message behind the words.

“Ah, lord, did granny put off your aunt with her jokes, then? I'm sure your father could match her, but Lady Mary seems of a more formal frame of mind.”  
Daniel knew that the two families wouldn't ever blend easily, wouldn't ever blend at all, probably.  
But he still hoped they wouldn't explode.  
Sybil squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“Your granny is only coming to the wedding and the luncheon, saying she's too old for much else.”  
Sybil laughed. “As though she couldn't run rings around the rest of us.  
“I took my dress over to show her, and we ate together at Yew Tree one night. Of course, I never got a word in with Daisy and the twins asking questions, but everything seemed fine.”

 

She turned to him, then, saving the best for last.  
“And Daddy said she reminds him a bit of his 'own dear mum.'”  
Daniel grinned, relieved.

“He's used to bossy women, too, then?” he asked, only partially teasing.  
And Sybbie smacked his shoulder, hard.  
(“Strong women. They're called strong women.”)

“They all seem to be trying quite hard to make it all go right.  
Especially with Atticus dying so close to.  
“Everyone knew it could have just as easily been Andy....or you.”  
Sybil pulled herself in closer then, in spite of the moist warmness of the summer air,  
and rested her head on his arm as they walked along.

So happy he was finally by her side  
and safe.

\---

Inside, two other Barrows were not having such a comforting conversation.

“You've given Danny his marching orders, haven't you?”  
Margaret had come briefly by the butler's office, having suddenly thought of something that might have been overlooked.  
Barrow raised an eyebrow. 

“Tommy, you've had him here with you for years now. Have you explained anything to him about....women, you know.”  
And she leaned forward, trying and rather failing to look him in the eye.  
It was not an easy topic for a woman of their generation, (no matter what people might think of her.)

(And to speak of it to her little brother was almost as bad as to her son. Almost.)

 

“I'm not sure you'd want ME to be his guide on that delicate topic,” Thomas drawled, cynically amused.  
His family had thrown him out, after all, for his proclivities. And even if was the old man, not Mags or their mother, he still held a scar from that night.

Margaret huffed a deep, irritated breath out.  
“Well, his mum can't do it,” she scolded.

 

And Barrow thought briefly, didn't I have the same problem talking to Andy back in the day?  
No.  
He smirked.  
“He'll have learned most of it from his mates in the army. But I'm sure old Mason out at Yew Tree is giving him a talking to.”  
(HE had been the one to take on the task with Parker, after all.)  
“All we'll need to do is calm him down after. Mr. Mason's explanations can be quite blunt.”

 

\---

And at the end of night upstairs, another pair was making sure that the final detail was done.

When Mary joined him in the sitting room for a late drink, Tom studied her face carefully.  
“Well?” he asked.  
“Really, Tom. You won't talk to her yourself, and then you expect a full accounting of the subject from me to you?”  
Mary fetched herself a drink and came to sit by his side. 

“I gave her the standard overview. As to the specifics, you'll just have to fill in the blanks of what I might have known to tell her in your own mind.”  
Mary smirked as Tom turned a dull red.  
“The Standard Overview, Tom. Really. Don't be so common,” she teased him, settling back for a sip.

\---

So thankfully, the tension seemed to pass and everyone was calmer by morning.  
The wedding morning.

At least the sun was ignoring all the dire predictions, shining quite cheerfully in the sky as Sybil woke.  
“Happy is the bride the sun shines on,” she murmured to herself.  
She dimpled slightly.

It would be a simple ceremony, really. Small, with just the two families.  
Upstairs on one side. Downstairs on the other.  
(She didn't know whether or not to laugh.)

 

The dress, though. Aunt Mary's dress was going to be a bother.  
Anna was staying back to help her with it, and for the first time Sybil understood the need for a lady's maid.  
Frankly, she also was glad of the support.  
Glad to have a tray brought and to be fussed over, even though usually she wasn't the type.

“Did they really dress like that all the time when you were a girl?” Sybil'd asked as they went about the preparations.  
“Not me, Miss Sybbie. But your aunts did,” Anna'd smiled, fastening buttons and finishing draping the veil just so.

 

Sybil was happy, but she was also nervous. Suddenly very, very nervous.  
She'd been so terrified that this day might not come, she'd forgotten to worry about what the day itself would mean.  
(But smiling grey eyes entered her mind then. Lips. Kisses.)  
She calmed and looked in the mirror. 

“Happy is the bride the sun shines on,” she said again as Anna smiled.

\---

A car was awaiting the groom and his best man, no small feat with petrol so short.  
Daniel had been picked up from Yew Tree first, then driven by the Abbey for his uncle.  
Thomas had a few things to lock up, with most everyone to be out of the house.

Thankfully, the Philpotts were cooking the wedding luncheon out of the B&B kitchen.  
And they'd serve it at the school house.  
Barrow's staff was in the clear.

 

So all Thomas had to really worry about was.....well, trying to navigate the day as his worlds were colliding.  
“Aren't you supposed to be worrying about me?” Daniel said, teasing, as he came by his uncle and noticed the older man's seeming to look about blankly. Almost lost.

“You aren't supposed to be inside,” Thomas barked, coming suddenly back to the present.  
“What if Miss Sybbie came down?”

 

“Have you seen her then?” Daniel asked, grinning. “She hasn't changed her mind?”  
Thomas grumbled slightly under his breath, and reached out to straighten his nephew's tie.  
(Really, can't this boy learn to dress?)

 

“She was still up with Anna a few minutes ago, so I'll be going with you before I get the pleasure.  
I suppose we'll both get the full effect at the same time.”  
(I hope I won't give in to any emotion when it happens, Thomas thought, squaring his shoulders and bracing for the day.)  
He smoothed his expression to calm.  
“We'd best go.”

\---

The church seemed empty almost, Daisy thought as she looked about.  
At her own wedding, they'd had only the two of them and their close witnesses.  
It had been practically a blizzard that day, and even the few guest couldn't make the walk.  
So this was a crowd compared to that, truly it was.  
Still.

No, thought Daisy, it really wasn't so very bad if there was a bit of an echo.  
No omen of a bad marriage, that.  
She knew from experience, she did.

 

Daisy smiled through glistening eyes as she looked about St. Michael's.  
For she'd finally received a letter from Andy--short, but written after the disastrous attack.  
Finally had proof that he was safe—at least for this moment in time.  
Daisy'd almost been holding her breath since the news about Atticus, really,  
since she knew they were encamped close by.

 

But now Mrs. Parker could find some joy in her memories, of her wedding now years past.  
And share some of her joy with the beautiful child whom she'd come to hold close to her heart.  
God bless the child.

\---

Near Daisy, Margaret Barrow sat, keeping her eyes on the people around her.  
(Analyzing, forming opinions.)  
It isn't the typical division, Margaret Barrow thought, scanning the waiting guests. 

Branson's brother, for instance. For that to be Sybil's godfather was a hoot of a thing, indeed.  
So that was why 'Mister' Tom Branson could act like normal folk.  
He hadn't been raised grand like his daughter.  
(And his daughter actually seemed to have stayed sweet for all that.)  
Margaret nodded at the older man and he smirked back.

 

Most of the young people, she observed, seemed to be visiting back and forth  
across the aisle before taking their respective sides.  
She couldn't keep all of them straight, of course, except recognizing the Parker twins.

The daughter next to Lady Edith seemed to be glowering, looking inside herself.  
But the other youngsters had no apparent reluctance to mingle. Bright young things, they were, teasing and laughing together.  
(Margaret nodded to herself. It was good.)

 

And the best of it to the Barrow women, Sybil's father had come in to speak to them for several minutes,  
before he was given a sign and had to dart back to take his place with the bride.  
Tom Branson was trying his best to be charming when he was undoubtedly pining over losing his darling daughter.  
Good on him, Margaret thought.  
He'll smooth the way nicely.

No, they weren't as bad as she had feared, this family.  
Margaret raised her chin, and slightly relaxed.

\---

Finally then, Thomas came out with Daniel, the older wearing a carefully controlled expression,  
the younger not able to lock down a wide grin. (So many teeth.)  
They stood in front, both showing nerves through a slight shuffling of their feet.  
Variations on a theme called 'Barrow.'  
It made the audience chuckle to watch.

 

“He's a crackin' lad, our Daniel,” old Mr. Mason said a bit too loudly,  
and the comment carried over the group, further breaking the ice.  
People smiled.  
And with the creak of the door opening, the music began to swell at the bride's entrance. 

 

Both sides gasped seeing how beautiful she was.  
Sybil Branson, soon to be Sybil Barrow.  
Bright, shining, happy.  
The most sentimental and romantic heart would tear to see her joyous as she was.

And as Mrs. Patmore & Mrs. Hughes discreetly wiped their tears,  
Another Downton wedding went in the books.


	51. Chapter 51

(Note: skip if you don't like m/f. Nothing explicit, of course.)

-  
-  
\-   
  
  
It was odd waking up next to Sybil.  
Odder still to have a maid come in bearing a tray, opening the curtains to let the morning in.  
Daniel suddenly felt very naked under the sheets.  
  
These toffs were quite indecent, they were.  
(At least he didn't know the maid, Barrow thought thankfully, Or he'd never show his face downstairs again.)

 

A warm breeze came through the window, bringing with it the smell of roses, the sound of birdsong and rustling leaves.

Sybil stretched and yawned then, rolling with hair mussed around her.  
And Daniel forgot the strangeness of the maid (who fortunately left.)  
Or the feeling of waking up in a strange room (a guest room far from any family, Sybil having deemed her childhood bedroom too close in.)

At one point last night, he'd wished he'd insisted on one of the estate cottages  
when he'd felt Tom's frown following him out of the room and up the stairs. (An abandoned shed would have done.)

But they'd soon forgot to be uncomfortable.  
Daniel just fell into her blue eyes and started kissing her,  
Which he repeated now that she was awake.

 

\---

“I assigned Betty to it, until we better know if she'll want a tray every morning after he's gone,” Mrs. Moseley reported to Mr. Barrow.  
It was his business to know about assignments, but Phyllis was surprised to get no reply.  
He and Daisy were waiting, hanging back while trying to look like they weren't hanging back. 

“Well?” Daisy prompted Phyllis finally.  
“Really you two,” smiled the housekeeper.  
“As long as no one's crying or arguing, we can leave it alone,” Barrow added, before he gave a sigh. 

 

He wasn't sure why he'd been concerned.  
They'd had enough weddings before, and once the knot was tied they'd only had one come undone. (And that was done about as hasty as a glacier.)  
It was just difficult not to worry about the children.  
Even when they weren't children any more.

Daisy sniffed a little then, and Phyllis got a bit teary eyed, too, but it seemed to be a happy sort of female teariness that didn't require supportive butlering, so Thomas made his way to his ledgers.  
Happy that the wedding was over and a success.

\---

 

“Eventually they'll expect us downstairs,” Daniel said practically, but his actions belied his words as he nuzzled a bit closer. “And then I'll have to leave.”  
She made a tiny moue with her lips at the idea of parting, but then managed to kiss his ear as it slid by.

“Before we do, I should tell you something,” Sybil started, but then she giggled as he hit a ticklish spot on the side of her neck.  
“Now I don't want you to get mad.”

 

Daniel came up for air grinning like a fool, the corner of the linen still over his head.  
“So it begins. I've heard tales of these nagging wives, but I thought it was usually after the honeymoon.”  
  
“Well then we'll have plenty of time without disagreement, since we won't get to That until after the war,”  
she smiled back, running fingertips down his arm.  
“But I wanted to tell you something you should think about. Something Aunt Mary might mention, and I didn't want you surprised by.”

“Hmmm...yes?” The young man raked the fringe of hair out of his eyes with his hand.  
Staring at her with grey eyes, smiling lazily, licking his lips.

It took Sybil a moment to breathe before she could even begin to collect her thoughts.  


She exhaled and swallowed, seeing him in front her like this. Hers.  
It took a bit of willpower to go on talking then.  
Sybil breathed out and shook her head.

 

“Well, you know how crowded Yew Tree is, so we'll have to get a cottage.  
“We talked about that.”  
He nodded, seriously enough, given that he was only half thinking. (Maybe less than half.)  
“Well, if you still wanted to farm, and if you didn't want to stay working at Yew Tree only, one of the tenancies needs someone to work it.”

 

“I wouldn't be mucking out barns forever at Yew Tree, even without your family's help,” Daniel said,  
with just the faintest touch of wounded pride.

“Which is why I didn't push away the idea immediately when Aunt Mary mentioned it.  
We'd still be near to Andy & Daisy, still see everyone at the big house, but be independent as it were.  
It's actually a big job, and you'd be a big help for doing it, what with workers scarce after the war.”  
Sybil stopped and took a breath.

 

“If you want, though.”  
She kissed him.  
“Daddy would give you a job. Or you can open up a shop on your own.”  
She kissed him again.  
“But I wanted to tell you this, in case you wanted to Consider it. There'd be no doing anything until after the war, anyway. The house was knocked flat in the raid.”  
And she kissed him again, just to sweeten the thought.

 

“Hmmm....do you think we could worry about business later?”  
Daniel said, getting distracted, cupping her face in his hand and more thoroughly returning the favor.

Then,  
“We don't have a lot of time before they really do start expecting us downstairs.  
And I don't want to spend it talking about farms....talking about anything, really.”

And she giggled a bit, as all conversation ceased for a while.

\---

Yes, it was very odd to eat at the big table at luncheon.  
At least his uncle was serving and caught his eye and gave a small smile.  
It gave the young people some reassurance in a meal that started very Silently.

The slight scratch of silver on china, the smell of beeswax and freesia. Delicious food. But silence.

 

They'd barely been out of bed, and Daniel felt like everyone knew it.  
He kept blushing.  
Sybil kept blushing.  
But Lady Grantham soon managed conversation steady enough that even a lad such as Daniel was lulled into comfortable response.

Lady Mary, too, seemed well able to discuss every aspect of farming, and for once her mother gave her free rein.  
It wasn't the most ideal of topics for table, but it was for this particular guest—and that was what mattered most. 

 

Tom Branson, too.  
Branson expressed sincere regrets that his mother and gran couldn't join them, and asked if he could go down to Yew Tree tonight or tomorrow night.  
(The poor man was making an effort, when all he wanted still was to glare at the young man.  
He liked him well enough, he did. But somehow he still wanted to knock him flat.)

“I'd like a chance to make sure they know how much we enjoyed their company,”  
Branson managed to keep himself focused on topics at hand.  
“And that eventually when you two set up housekeeping, if they visit, they can come here or there, but we'd still like to see them when they come.”  
(Lady Mary nodded at him. Good job, you.)

 

Again, behind them, Daniel saw his uncle look his way...and smile.  
Just quickly before the perfectly professional mask was back in place, yet still enough.  
It would be fine.  
Awkward, perhaps. But fine.  
If only he didn't have to return so soon to the war, Daniel was certain he could be happy in this moment forever.

Pity, that.


	52. Chapter 52

-  
-  
-  
Andy was sweating under an Egyptian sun, thankful to still be standing.  
He'd only just heard the fate of Atticus Aldridge and his men, and the sadness of it all had   
he and Teddy drinking from the man's slim supply of alcohol.

It didn't take much to get Andy tiddly, however, so after two strong toasts he'd stopped.  
Leaving the officer what was, after all, his.

“A good man, and a gentleman,” Andy'd commented. “Didn't look down on me for being in service.”  
Teddy grinned. “Why would anyone look down on you for being in service,” he asked, somewhat bleerily, now on his fourth.  
“I thought you ran a farm.”  
“I do. Or I do now, but Atticus met me when I was a footman,” Andy said. “And just met briefly, too. So it was even kinder to take me under his wing out here.”

 

“Well, I'll just have to keep watch on you in his memory, then,” and Teddy laughed, looking at the other man, who was older, but certainly more innocent.  
How did a man get to such an age and still look at the world through such gentle eyes?

“To Atticus,” Teddy said, raising his flask. “And to us who keep on fighting.”  
Andy nodded and raised his hand, though there was nothing in it, joining in the sentiment still.

 

They'd had a time of it surviving to fight again.  
Rommel, after breaking through the center of the line, had attacked to the south and then the north.   
He'd overrun two British divisions, making communications break down--  
and with them, command.

Soon it was clear that they'd have to fall back, if not flat out retreat.  
The Free French at the south pulled out first.  
Ritchie tried to put in defenses around Tobruk, hoping the could outlast until he could manage a fight back.  
But Andy's battalion soon was told to retreat, too...though in the direction which took them straight into the enemy's teeth.

 

“You know,” Teddy said, still drinking. “I'm not sure sometimes about these commanders. That was not our most orderly implementation of, ah, orders.”  
The man sat thinking back through the last weeks, taking a deep drag on a cigarette.  
Allowing himself to breathe out a cloud of smoke. 

“My friend Thomas used to smoke like that,” Andy said randomly.   
“Like a dragon until one of the children made him give it up.”

“Well, I've no children yet, so there you go,” Teddy said agreeably, offering Andy a drag.  
But Parker merely smiled an shook his head no. “Best not tempt me.”   
He leaned back, letting the sweat drip down his face, wondering what Daisy and the twins were doing right now.

 

“Besides,” Andy said finally, coming back to present day. “It wasn't the commanders so much as the Italians. If they'd just stayed asleep long enough for ALL of us to get through before starting to pour it on.”

“Either that or our fellows should have driven faster or been quieter,” Teddy said sensibly (drunkenly.)  
They laughed.  
As though the entire lot of them could have retreated past completely silent in the night.

It had been a frightening time that moment, realizing they were at the end of a line which might not keep moving forward.   
That their initial orders just wouldn't work.

 

“And the South Africans shooting at us, as though we weren't their own bloody allies. Just because we followed them out the northern coast way, rather than down south as we'd been told.”  
Now there was almost a noteworthy clash in the empire.   
Churchill was already mad at the officers for not holding the line. Imagine what his face must have been like when he'd heard that some of his troops tried to shoot each other dead.  
“Almost boxed up and buried we were.”

Teddy let go another cloud of smoke, drifting it out through his lips as though trying to create his own cloud.  
A cloud to hide in. A cloud to bring a cooling rain down on them.

 

“This is NOT how I imagined things,” Teddy said softly, almost sadly then.

“I'd say it's because you're too young, but it's not how I imagined things either, so....there.”  
Andy sighed.  
They were stationed in Mareopoles, southwest of Alexandria for the refit.   
Andy'd written Daisy a cheery note about re-fueling, but in actuality they'd lost so many men and so much equipment, it was more an overhaul of sorts.  
Down to Half strength, they were.

 

At least it was a bit of a break, this cobbling together in the merciless sun.  
Andy sighed again.  
“Stop that; you'll take all the air,” Teddy said, waving his hand around and scattering ash.

“Hot enough to fry an egg,” Andy said, still tiddly.   
“If we had an egg to fry,” Teddy agreed.   
They'd had bully beef and biscuits for lunch, and neither man was very satisfied.

“Tell me again about the pudding your wife makes,” Teddy encouraged.  
And in great, salivating detail, Andy did.

\---

If it could only have gone on like that, chumming aimlessly in a safe spot.

Unfortunately, the commanders had yet another idea for how to push the Jerries back.   
And Andy's battalion had enough rest to now be used.  
At a place they called 'Ruin Ridge.'   
(It was because of an actual ruin being there, but Andy didn't like the name, not one whit.)

 

“We need to do what?” Andy asked, grinning slightly in weary disbelief at Teddy.  
“Disable mines,” the young officer said blandly. “And I'm to go with you all to make sure you don't get lost on the way.”  
They snorted. 

Andy had been on mine patrol before, and it always made him a bit queasy.   
Clearing mines when the bloody things could explode, doing it quickly so troops and tanks could get through.  
Not for the faint hearted, that. 

Yet another thing to not tell Daisy, at least until maybe he got back home in one piece.  
Or maybe not even then, he sadly admitted to himself, going to prepare for the task.

 

The Aussies went out first.   
Good men, Andy thought, though they were a different group of Aussies than he'd been so friendly with back at the first.   
How long ago a time it seemed since Cyprus.   
And how he wished he could move time more quickly, so that he could finally be home.

 

It was deep into the desert night as the Brits waited for their turn at movement.  
Black sky like velvet.  
Stars like fiery little diamonds.  
Andy wished he could reach up and scoop some down to put in his pocket for his Daisy girl back home.   
Would cover her in them, he would, just like a countess.

Andy dozed off a bit, with the waiting, smiling as he met Daisy in his dreams.  
Amazing how you could be absolutely terrified of what was coming, but so exhausted and depleted that you'd just doze off the moment you sat.

Finally, by 2am it was their turn.

 

Now, mine clearing is careful work. Any idiot would know that.  
Carefully finding the buggers, then moving them after disabling them, one at a time.  
The armies dug them in one at a time, now buried by the thousands, then they moved them one at a time as they tried to sneak forward.

 

Across from him in the line, Andy saw his old pal Ginger flexing his fingertips and growling at one of the new posts.  
The fool was obviously rattling the man, which could lead to errors.  
Andy went to the other side, avoiding the big man.  
Carefully, using only a faint glow of light pointed down, he moved forward a foot at a time.

\---

“If they call it Operation Manhood, what are you doing here, Andy?”  
The other man said his name with that nasty lilt, like a little child's nickname gone wrong.  
Of course, he wouldn't be able to avoid him forever. It was just too much to ask.

 

“Budge over, Ginger, and be quiet,” Andy said softly. “I'm not your partner these days.”  
He didn't use a heated tone, tried to sound as friendly as he could.  
However, unbidden, Andy shuddered slightly. 

He'd have gone crazy if he'd had to be near the man much longer than he had.   
(Atticus had been a savior, truly.  
He'd tell Lady Rose himself what a hero. If ever he got home.)

“Now, Andy. Don't be shirty,” Ginger sing-songed.  
“My new boy will do just fine on his own, while I catch up time with an old friend.”

 

“Shut up back there,” someone in front hissed.  
Andy jumped slightly, almost losing his touch on his work.   
Mines, remember? Focus.  
The first wave had gone through as the Aussies got into position.   
They needed to work quickly, too, and get into theirs.

\---

Having Ginger periodically sneak to loom over his shoulder kept Parker on edge through the night.   
Things seemed to go more slowly than usual in the operation.  
The men finally got into their position by 8am, over six hours of it.  
And reports coming in were both confusing and conflicting.

Not a good day to be in their boots.

 

“Where are the tanks?” Andy asked Teddy, having made his way to the officer's side.  
He tried to be unobtrusive in their friendship, but he figured the younger man would know.   
“That's what I've been on radio trying to find out,” the lieutenant replied, smirking. 

“The supporting anti-tanks got lost in the darkness, leaving us hanging out here as morning came on.”  
“Officially, the armoured's delayed, they said, and...”  
Teddy's next comment was lost in a volley as a counter attack began.

 

It was almost second nature now to duck whilst hearing the whistle of incoming.  
Andy's body did it automatically, before his brain even had a chance to catch up.  
“What'll we...” he started to ask, before scrambling himself into a gun pit.  
Realizing the futility of looking for logic or answers.  
Checking the ammunition, settling in with two others, knowing they didn't have enough in place yet in case of a direct hit.

Orders started chattering in over the wire then.

The Axis troops had expected it.   
Damn it. They'd outright expected it.  
Had watched both the Aussies and Brits take position, then looped around to surround them.  
Their battalion would have to fight their way back out.

 

“The front of the brigade's over run,” Teddy yelled, though leaning in so close that Andy could feel his breath on his neck.  
“Orders to regroup. Come with me.”  
And they went then, orderly people trying to follow their directives in a very disorderly scene.

“What're you doing you bastard?” Andy could see Ginger almost as much as hear him, throttling the new man he'd been harassing earlier.   
Red face, bulging eyes, spittle flying.

“Here,” Teddy called as they came up past them, waving to reinforce the command.  
“Here you two, fall in and forget about that.”  
He didn't know what the disagreement might be, but he knew there was no time for it now. 

 

“This mewling bastard almost got me killed,” Ginger roared over the battle, still shaking the other man like a rag doll.   
“Fall in, I say, and that's an order,” Teddy yelled back, trying to look both older and bigger than he was.

And on they went, more and more gathering behind,  
frightened yet fighting and holding everything in check so as to salvage as many men as possible (all of them if possible) off of Ruin Ridge.

 

But of course many men were lost.--over a thousand of them in total, between both Brits and Aussies.   
And of course Ginger didn't let it drop—widening his anger now to both Teddy and Andy.  
Because that's what bullies did when anyone questioned them   
or tried to escape their bullying.  
Even in war.


	53. Chapter 53

-  
-  
-  
(Note: there is a disturbance in the Force. ie, Suspend disbelief, I'm having an odd sort of day.)

 

 

Not all bullies were on battlefields, however.

Sybil Branson's boss was still in Edward & Clarey's sights.  
The mean old witch.  
All the real drama of war and wedding had knocked the incident into the background.  
The locks had held and no additional thefts evident.  
But they knew whom to blame for those from months ago...dodgey old Mrs. L.

 

So now with Daniel Barrow going back to his posting, and Sybil once again morosely on the job, the boys decided they needed to focus in again on closing the case.  
Not only did the old woman fit the stereotype of a cinema villain, Clarey now swore he'd seen the woman actually having the pendant on her person, when he'd seen her skulking into the WVS. 

He'd been too embarrassed by glancing at the old lady's bosom, however, to simply take a grab at it and run.  
This might require help.

 

“What do you know about my cousin's supervisor, Barrow?” Edward had asked the butler.  
He'd tried Sybil and got a general, negative description, but not much more.

“Don't know a thing about her,” Mr. Barrow answered seriously. "Don't think anyone's ever met her, have they?"  
He raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is she being a hindrance of some sort to Miss Sybil?”  
To this, Edward smiled quietly.  
Should he 'let loose the dogs of war'?  
When it was Sybil in question, he thought he should.

 

“Yes,” Edward said. “It's not just that Clarey and I think she's dodgey. She's also quite mean.”  
And with that, the die was cast.

"Mean? To Miss Sybil?" the butler smirked.

\---

 

Barrow made sure to casually ask the young woman directly, rather than prying more out of Master Edward.  
Best to get the information first hand.  
“Tell me more about your WVS work, Miss Sybbie,” he'd started, coming in with his tea cup one afternoon as  
she and Daisy were pouring over their maps.

And after listening to reports on scrap drives, meat pies, fetes, and rescue work such as helping with the bomb victims,  
Barrow had to admit that the women had the men matched,  
maybe even beat.

 

“How do you organize things, though? Do you have district supervisors like the ARP?”  
Daisy snorted and kept silent.  
Why Barrow was dredging through bureaucratic minutiae was a mystery, but she was quite sure there was some greater purpose,  
knowing Thomas as she did. 

“Oh, we've all sorts of checks and balances that keep things proper,” the girl said innocently enough, going into another long ramble through the maze of information stored in a very active brain behind her wide blue eyes.  
Daisy giggled. 

“And then there's that horrid old woman who keeps pushing in,” Daisy prompted. “Calls her Canigula.”

 

“Daisy, hush,” Sybil blushed, embarrassed at being caught out, rude.  
“She's not official, though. She just pretends like she is and we have to bow down and scrape to her, knowing the main Director as she does.  
“Or at least claims to,” and here Sybil smiled a bit, trying to make it into a smirk.

“So she's some big muck?” Barrow prompted, already planning his approach.

“Well, she said she knew her from having worked for her and her husband, had been a maid to the man's first wife  
and was allowed to stay on in service there, but I don't believe it now.  
“I think she just pretends it to make herself look important. Otherwise she wouldn't be so sly on her visits into the center,  
as though she didn't want anyone to see her when she must stop by.  
“Such a silly old woman, our Mrs. Lang.”

 

And suddenly, Barrow tilted his head, considering.

\---

“Can't be,” Daisy said when the staff had gathered, as she helped bring in the food.

“Can't be,” Anna seconded. “If it were our Mrs. O'Brien, she'd have come up here crowing about working for someone important.”

“Don't say 'our' in connection with Mrs. O'Brien if you please,” her husband said, giving her a slight smile. “She's none of mine.”  
“Nor of mine,” agreed Barrow.

 

“Who is this again?” asked Phyllis Moseley, not quite following.  
“The former maid to Lady Grantham,” Anna explained. “But she's working in London. I ran across her a few years back, was married to a former valet.”

“This particular Mrs. Lang hasn't been back anywhere other than to coordinate some work with the younger set at the WVS center.  
And is a bane to Miss Sybbie's life, so I've heard,” Barrow muttered the last under his breath.  
“Miss Sybil wouldn't know her. And even the shopkeepers are mainly younger people, too. She's just slithered her way in and slithered her way out when she was forced to by her employer.”

“If it's even her.”

 

“So why do you think it's Mrs. O'Brien then?” Anna asked, sensibly.  
Barrow huffed.  
“She might have lifted a key at any time, but more importantly...”

“The snuff box,” Mr. Bates said suddenly.  
Barrow nodded. “The necklace was just an old piece O'Brien gave to her ladyship on her wedding.  
For one of us it was quite the gift, but for her ladyship it was just sentimental junk.  
“But the snuff box, she might just take to fool with us. To fool with me.”  
The valet nodded, remembering.

 

“Clarey?” Bates suggested.  
“Yes, we need to speak to your son about this, certainly. He undoubtedly knows more than the rest of us on this,” the butler agreed. 

Anna chuckled. “Don't tell him that or he'll be even worse than he is to handle.”  
“We'll be the very souls of discretion,” Barrow said solemnly.  
But the expression on his face only made her start to chuckle all the more.  
It probably wasn't O'Brien, Anna thought, but if it was, she'd better not meet Mr. Barrow on any dark night.

\---

“So it fits in a way, though Clarey Bates' description was a bit different than I would've thought,”  
Thomas rounded up telling the story again as the men sat around the table for Cards that night.  
“And she won't be back for another MONTH, so it's to wait.”

He took a drink and grumbled softly.  
How Thomas would have liked to corner Mrs. O'Brien right now if it really was her being rude to their Sybbie.

 

“I can help,” Jimmy said grinning. “Or I have a clue to give to the pot.”  
The others stopped fiddling with their cards to listen then, giving Kent center stage attention.  
(How Jimmy loved center stage attention.)  
He laughed.  
“Now I'm not sure. And it made no sense at the time, mind you,” he hesitated, milking the moment. “But I may have seen her myself back when there was the bomb attack here.”

 

“And you didn't think to tell me?” asked Thomas, irritated.  
“Well, why would I think it really was her? I mean the hair was bobbling along the same, those devil's curls in the front, but it was grey.  
And she walked like our old O'Brien, but there was no reason to think she'd be there where I saw her.”  
Thomas smirked as Jimmy blushed slightly.  
“Well, it was just a quick glance, her darting in like she did, and you were in the middle of ticking me off.”

 

“Yell at him and his head goes to mush, it does,” Sam added.  
“But he works good.”  
And that was as much of a reference as the best of the gardeners got from the old man.

 

“Cheers,” Jimmy said, taking a long sip of his drink and smiling.  
He'd stayed as long as he could before going back to York, liking the job with Samuelson.  
Had enjoyed palling around with Thomas.  
And Frank.  
(You can't have a dog over a cinema. So he'd had to leave the pup at Downton.  
Almost broke his heart.)

 

Every week now on his day off from the cinema, he was coming back still puttering in the gardens, playing with the dog,  
tickling and laughing with Thomas—young Thomas, that was,  
then playing cards with his friends.  
He wished every day of his life could be so simple and fine.

 

Interrupting his thoughts, Barrow grumbled some more in spite of winning the hand.  
“We'll be waiting for her, Thomas,” Bates said darkly from his corner.  
“And she won't see it coming.” (The men shared a smile.)  
“I'll help,” Jimmy grinned. “That is if the rest of you'll let me come play along.”


	54. Chapter 54

(Note: period typical views on adoption and illegitimacy.)

-  
-  
-  
Then there was Marigold.  
Marigold Pelham wasn't a fool, and the comment her cousin made had started her thinking.  
It wasn't even so much the comment as watching her mama in the days after.  
Her mother knew something.  
Something about her father being missing, presumed dead, and being found alive.

 

Now, Marigold knew that it could either be some secret she didn't know about Bertie Pelham...or it could be some secret she didn't know about her real father.  
The father who'd not been in her life since she was a baby long ago.  
Was he still alive? Could that be possible?

“Papa, tell me about your time in the war. Where did you serve?” Marigold started. 

Bertie had almost expected the question, since Edith told her what Sybbie had said.  
They'd hoped to dodge the topic, hoped it would just go past without causing a ripple.  
But that never seemed to be the way with the two of them.  
Always challenges. 

 

“Your mother and I need to talk to you, Marigold. You're old enough now to know, even if we'd hoped you'd never have need.”  
Bertie turned to the footman and asked for the marchioness to join them in the library.  
And for tea. Lots of tea.

\---

“You're ashamed of me, then,” Marigold cried, tears silently overflowing her eyes in a mixture of sadness, embarrassment, and anger.

“Never,” Bertie & Edith said almost simultaneously.  
“I'd never be ashamed of you, my darling,” Edith said forcefully. “But we had to make sure your life went right. That you got all the very best things you deserve.”

“Or that Robert did,” Marigold protested.  
It was her brother who'd be the heir, her brother who would suffer if their mother's indiscretion was brought to light.  
Marigold. Marigold was her indiscretion. Her secret little sin.

(She'd always sensed they thought something wrong with her. Had tried to be brighter, brasher, prettier. But this was a blot that couldn't ever be fixed.)

 

“You're my adopted daughter, just as always. And your mother, Your Mother wanted you so much that she couldn't let you go in spite of the risk.”  
Bertie paused, looking at Marigold with sincerity shining out of his kind eyes.  
“Don't you see how loved you are? And that we didn't want you.....or, yes, Robert.....to carry any sort of burden for something that wasn't your fault.”

 

Marigold got up and started to pace.  
Outside, things were going on as they always had—at least in wartime.  
Brancaster was hosting an evacuated school. The noise of young women's voices filtered in, lively and happy.  
How simple it was to be them, Marigold thought. 

“It was bad enough when I thought I was adopted. At least then it was just a couple of people handing me off to you.  
“But now it's the whole world not wanting me.”  
Marigold gave in to a good cry then, letting Bertie come to rub her shoulder, but batting poor Edith away.  
(“We wanted you, love. We wanted you with all our hearts,” Bertie murmured quietly in her ear.)

 

It was a bit of hysterics, Edith knew, but it was also somewhat the truth.  
Somehow she should have told the girl earlier. Found a way to tell her easier.  
Or she should have made sure to hold the secret more closely to herself.

“So is my real father alive? Is that what Sybbie meant?”  
Marigold hiccupped out the question, feeling absolutely horrible when Bertie winced slightly.  
“I don't mean...” she drifted off. “Oh, papa, I didn't mean anything by it, but I do have to ask.”  
And she leaned against Pelham then, quite done in, truly feeling battered.

 

“I need to get the truth of it, before I can plaster on a good face forward.”  
“And to do that, I need the entire story.  
“And decide if I'll keep this secret of OURS.”

Still hanging tight to Bertie, Marigold looked at her mother and glared.

\---

 

Later that night, Abe Baldwin was surprised when Marigold seemed so jittery on their night out.  
They'd been planning it for weeks now.  
His family was over, father coming to see how his business was moving along in Britain.  
It wasn't an easy trip of it.

There were a lot of Americans coming to England, but they were almost entirely in uniform.  
So having his trim little mother step off the gangway with Darcy Baldwin had been a real treat.

“What's a matter, pumpkin? They'll love you for sure.”  
Abe thought it might be meeting his parents that was to blame.  
A sweet idea, really.  
He'd written them about Marigold, so they were set to give her the once over,  
but Abe certainly hadn't said that in passing to the Pelhams.  
Not when they were so high on the pecking order in England society, that is.

 

“Mother was a Carrington, so she does have more polish than the rest of us, but she's such a pile of fun you'd never know all the aunts are snobs.  
“She ran off and married my father, just ran off and eloped. So she's as feisty of a heroine as ever your mother wrote about in one of her books.”

Abe tried a laugh, but it ended up a worried laugh.  
Marigold still seemed off somehow.  
Too quiet, certainly.  
Why they'd been together an hour and she'd only managed a handful of words. 

Baldwin hoped she loosened up some or it wouldn't be the pleasant evening they'd all hoped to have.

\---

But it didn't end up being the case.  
“They didn't like me. That's all there is to it.”  
Marigold's words were clipped and her eyes dull as they walked along after dinner.  
It was warm still, even in the twilight, but he could feel her shiver, feel the numbness of her hand as he gripped hers tight.

“Now, pumpkin, don't say that.” ( It was true, Abe thought, but it could be remedied.)  
“There's still weeks left of them being here, sweetie. It was just one silly dinner.”  
And he put his arms around her then, pulled her close and let her cry a bit on his lapel,  
not knowing why she had come so suddenly undone, but willing to help her  
pull things together again.

 

“We'll be alright by morning, you'll see.”  
He rubbed large fingers across her hair, smoothing the back of it.  
How beautiful her curls were, like new copper pennies.

She stopped crying and sighed, and he sighed, too, patting her back gently now.  
“You'll see,” he said, moving her back and tipping up her face by the chin.  
Wiping her tears and giving her a soft kiss.  
“You'll see. It'll be okay just as quick as that.”

And she gave him a watery smile and a nod, hoping against hope that it would.


	55. Chapter 55

-  
-  
-  
Edith had always put Marigold first.  
In front of her own happiness, certainly. In front of her husband's, too, once they'd become co-conspirators in the secret of her birth.

“She'll never forgive me,” Edith said glumly, now, certain she'd lost one of the most precious things in her life.  
“She'll forgive you, and it's 'us' that she's angry at, not just you.  
" I may not get the full force of it, but never you doubt she's angry at me, too.”

Bertie walked along the battlements with his wife.  
They'd needed a place of quiet and calm before going back to not only the tension of family,  
but also the confusion of being invaded—the evacuees had caused quite the stir in their once majestic home.

 

“If the timing of this causes her to foul things up with the Baldwins, we'll never hear the end of it.  
“I may not want her to marry him, since they might go overseas,  
but I do think he's perfect for her.”  
Edith chewed her lip. True it would be more convenient if Marigold threw over Abe, replaced him with a nice Englishman--even a baronet would do.

And Edith, herself, had come back from thwarted romance. (But this was Marigold, who'd never been as strong minded as her mother in spite of everything the Pelhams had done.)

 

“They'll be fine. She'll be fine.”  
Bertie took her hand and looped it through his arm. He pulled her closer  
until she could feel the comforting nearness of the man, smell the scent of him.  
“This just needs time. We can't do anything other than what we've done. And now it's just to see how things play out.”

“Michael will be up on the next train, so I don't think there'll be too much time before the next crisis appears.”  
Edith leaned her head on Bertie's shoulder.  
When they'd told Marigold that part, who her father really was, it had caused the girl such a confusing  
mixture of relief and anger that Edith really didn't know what to do.

 

She'd been relieved to know her father was a good man, who hadn't abandoned her really,  
who'd been forced out of the picture originally by circumstance but had come back.  
For Michael Gregson had the role of favorite uncle, a friend of the family almost Marigold's entire life.

But that also meant another of the most trusted adults in her life had lied to her.

 

“He can't fix things. We can't fix things. Which is why we've always just avoided the topic. It all falls to Marigold.  
“And I'm not sure of whether she can hold the weight of this, or if she'll break.”  
Edith turned to him then, letting him pull her into his arms.  
Bertie, at least, made her feel like her own world wasn't shattering around her.  
But the comfort of his arms couldn't deny forever the problems their daughter now faced.

\---

“That's the girl you thought chirped like a happy finch?” Darcy Baldwin asked his son the next morning over breakfast.  
“She certainly wasn't entertaining last night.”  
Mr. Baldwin took a sip of his orange juice and smiled at his son, before turning to his newspaper. (Always so much to catch up on in the news.)

“She was nervous, I think,” Abe said around the last bite of sausages.  
The English breakfasts were hearty and good, quite the thing to satisfy a mid westerner's heart.

 

“She was dull.  
"If she doesn't have enough spirit to face down us, how's she ever going to cope when she meets the rest of the family?”  
His mother rolled her eyes slightly.  
Of course, Abe knew she meant her side of the family, who really were a cutthroat bunch.  
Even he was on best behavior around his grandmother, not chatty and warm like Marigold was with hers.

 

“She has spirit, and smarts, too, my Marigold. You'll see. It'll just take time to get everyone smoothed out.  
“And when you meet her parents, you'll love them, too. Mrs. Pelham's quite like you, mother. You'll see. And her father's kind, and...”

“Her daddy's rich, and her mother's good looking?” chuckled Darcy from behind his paper.  
(The song, popular enough, would now be stuck in all of their minds.)  
Anna Baldwin laughed then, as she usually did in adoration of her husband.

And rolling her eyes again at her son, she said, “OK, you win. I'll give the girl another few rounds before I knock her out. But she'd best do better than last night.  
“Last night she was like some abandoned kitten, not a woman worthy of my Abraham.”

 

And ruffling her son's hair lightly as she walked past, Mrs. Baldwin left the room,  
posture quite perfect and ready to scare some English servants into doing their jobs.

\---

“I can't tell you much, but I can tell you my parents are being simply dreadful.”  
Marigold sat in Bertram's office drinking tea.  
The butler was gruff and strong, with blonde hair now laced in grey.  
And he adored Marigold.  
Always had, always would.

 

Even now, when she was obviously quite incorrect.  
“Your parents love you more than any other girl is loved, you know.”  
His voice rumbled out around and soothed her. Made her believe in the absolute truth of the thing just by saying it, in his basso profundo voice.

“You don't know what they did,” she said, wobbling slightly.  
(What if he did? What if they all did and just didn't tell her?)  
But she studied him, then. Looked directly into his eyes and saw nothing but confusion and concern.  
It was good to have someone who was invariably on her side above everyone else's.  
She'd put her parents in that category, too, until Robert came. (And even mostly thereafter.)

 

“I don't have to,” the butler said, breaking back into her thoughts.  
“I know it no matter what happens, no matter what they do.”  
“And so do you, Miss Marigold.”

The old man patted her on the shoulder, and stuck his head out the door to order them up some tea.  
How lovely it was to hide down here like she'd done as a child.  
Marigold's shoulders slumped.  
She'd felt her entire world shift in the last week. And it might take several sessions with Bertram  
to make things once again feel steady enough to carry on.

\---

“She finally suspected enough until I felt it couldn't be put off,” Edith told Michael.  
He'd come on the first train, looking quite at loose ends, bag barely sufficiently packed for the trip.

“You shouldn't have done. And it should have been long before,” Michael said simply.  
He didn't care if his daughter knew her birthright.  
He'd wanted it, even. Of course, he'd left her in the only home she'd known, but he'd never thought to deny her.  
They all just wanted the very best for their Marigold. 

 

“Michael,” Bertie greeted, coming to shake the other man's hand.  
“Bertie,” Gregson replied, inclining his head. 

“Let's go into the study and strategize a bit before we see our darling girl, shall we?  
“I think this might take a drink, too, even if it is still before the cocktail hour.”  
And together the three went in, like people facing the gallows, hoping for some reprieve.

\---

Late that night, beside them at dinner, Robby went chattering on.  
Meanwhile Marigold and Abe sat quietly enough, eating and sharing a tentative comment now and then,  
the young man still unsure how to get his love to smile.

Her earlier talk with Gregson and her parents had gone smoothly, with everyone saying all the correct things.  
Marigold heard them well enough, and knew she should feel better now, better that she had been so loved.  
For that was the absolute key to every part of everyone's story.  
How much she was beloved. 

 

Still, Marigold needed time to adjust how she thought of herself, how she thought of the world.  
She needed to run away from her life as it had been, and reconstruct a new one out of the best bits she now knew her life to be. 

So here she sat a dinner, thinking and sighing.  
And beside her, Abe looked patiently on, still worried.  
If only she would smile.


	56. Chapter 56

-  
-  
-  
Sybil had decided to stay in the room she'd chosen for herself and Daniel.  
It would be an inconvenience for the maids, far back in a corner as it was,  
but she believed it a necessity, allowing her to move about without everyone always watching when she'd come or go.

The young woman still had dinner with the family, of course.  
But from early morning until they gathered at table, she was essentially independent.  
She worked at the WVS in the day, had dinner, and went 'home' to her separate suite, where she could write her husband and dream.

\---

 

21 September, 1942

My Darling Husband,

I am sitting in my little alcove seat with pillows plumped around me, looking out the window and wishing I was with you, curled up against the cold.

Hopefully you are doing well, oh handsome one, not too bored with the isolation, or too tense from the duties on which you're posted.

Each night, I sit here and look up at the stars, pretending I'm talking to you and telling you everything.  
Even more than a letter could ever hope to contain.  
(For I don't want to make anyone blush.)  
In my mind and in my dreams, I'm with you, love, by your side where I'll be forevermore after this war.

 

I've read your last letter to tatters trying to think on what you said.  
First on the rumor of moving you to East Anglia...  
My initial reaction, of course, was 'hurrah,' since it will be a better posting, and they aren't blitzing like they were.  
And you won't have icicles hanging off your gun.

Surely I can visit you there or is that area restricted, too?  
I know your commander has already been kind with passes, and you're probably on 'half days' only for the while.

 

On the other hand, though, I worry that they might be thinking to train you better to ship you off.  
If they do, I might have to go down and find good old Winston and give him a ticking off.  
(Donk gets so irrate when I slip and call the PM that, but I don't mean disrespect, certainly. I'm trusting the old bull dog to get us through, after all.)

 

Second,  
I understand what you were trying to say about the Italians.  
It certainly is strange to have shipped out all of the friendly people back at the start of the war—who wanted to be with us.  
And then to bring in POW's in their place.  
Well, not in their place, exactly. But up there with you. 

It sounds like a good defensive move though, this project, and I'm glad they'll be doing the hard labor of it all.  
But won't building a barrier across the scarpa flows be a problem with the rules?  
Daisy said if they catch anyone as a POW on either side, theirs or ours, they can't use them for war projects and such.  
She gave me a booklet on the Geneva Convention that she'd borrowed herself from Mr. Moseley.

(Perhaps I'll bring Daisy with me when I go up to see the PM and set him straight.  
She may be a cook, but she can think better than a solicitor, that's for certain.)

 

At any rate, don't let yourself get too worried about the Italians, since I'm sure they will be fine.  
Yes, this lot may be friendly, but the ones left on the battlefield will still be shooting.  
So it's not to think too deeply on it, in case you have to be shooting back.  
I don't want to have you get hurt out of kindness. For I know you have a kind heart.

 

As well as many other fine qualities.  
And I would rather think on them than something grim.

The lipstick smudge below is from me sending you a kiss.  
Your mouth is but one of your fine qualities, my darling husband.  
And I wish it were mine for the kissing tonight.

I will think of all of your other fine aspects as I close out this letter, but not list them in case the censor is watching  
and might get jealous.  
So I bid you a good night and a peaceful rest, meeting as we do in dreams.

Yours most cordially, (as granny would say)  
And most passionately, (as I would say, having been corrupted by cinema)

Sybil 

 

And with that, Sybil Barrow kissed the letter and sealed it in an envelope.  
(Marigold's 'auxillary red' lipstick good for something after all.)  
She'd get it out in the post the next day, when she went into the WVS center.

The thought led to a sigh, for tomorrow would undoubtedly prove to be trying.  
Old Mrs. Lang was inspecting, and it would be to listen to her criticisms ad nauseam, and try not to take to heart her evil ways.

 

\---

O'Brien.  
It was O'Brien, Thomas thought, smirking, watching from his position in the tea shop's window.  
He hadn't seen her for almost twenty years, but he immediately recognized her.  
They'd found the snuff box, hidden as it was in his old room, he having finally moved down the hall to the butler's larger suite after Carson's death.  
But she still owed the Crawleys a necklace, and him some respect.

It had taken years and years to get over her betrayal of him.  
Years when he'd still shudder slightly when something that reminded him of her went through his mind.  
For even if he didn't mind a bit of a cruel comeuppance given, what she'd almost managed to do was land him either in jail or  
on the streets in a desperate strait.

 

All because he wouldn't welcome her giant nephew with open arms.  
(And he hadn't played tricks with the cleaning compound. The daft git had got it wrong.)

Thomas smirked at Jimmy and Mr. Bates, who nodded back.  
If nothing else, O'Brien was in for a bit of a surprise.

\---

“And I did tell you that this wouldn't be acceptable if it happened again....”  
the voice droning on from Miss Sybbie's office was the most recognizable item of all.

“Miss O'Brien, how lovely to see you,” Barrow interrupted, coming in after only a rap on the open door.  
Bates came in and nodded first to Miss Sybil, then stood casually and calmly watching, hand on his cane.  
Jimmy crowded in a bit, with a slight grin in anticipation of a fight.

 

The older woman considered a bluff.  
He could see the wheels in her head turning as she did so. (The look so familiar from the years where they'd been each other's only friends.)  
If it had been just Jimmy, she might have bluffed and blustered,  
but with all three, especially with Thomas...

“Thomas,” she bit out. “Didn't know you'd joined the Women's Volunteers.”  
Sybil's eyes widened.  
“You two know each other? Mrs. Lang?”

 

“We regret interrupting you, Miss Sybbie, but your Mrs. Lang used to work at the Abbey.  
Back when she was Sarah O'Brien, she was your grandmother's maid.”  
Barrow smiled slightly at the younger woman.  
Her eyebrow rose in a passible imitation of Lady Mary or even Thomas himself.

(So that was why the old wretch seemed to come down so hard, Sybil thought.  
She had some silly grudge with the family.)  
“Oh, well then,” Sybil said, tucking back any hint of a smile.  
“Do go on.”

 

“It won't be necessary, Miss Branson. I just need your reports as always, and then I'll move along.”  
O'Brien glared at the three men.  
“I don't come here for reunions, after all.”

 

Sybil chuckled then. “Actually, Mrs. Lang, I don't think anyone has told you yet. I've married.”  
She paused and the smile slipped out unbidden.  
“I'm Mrs. Barrow now.”

Thomas wanted to chuckle himself, though he kept his expression cool and blank.  
A good jab, well delivered that. Miss Sybbie had timing, she did.  
O'Brien's mouth opened slightly, but then she looked confused. 

“His nephew, Miss O'Brien. Don't think anything nasty,” Jimmy threw in, grinning.

 

“You wouldn't know what I'd think, since you've never known how to think,” O'Brien parried.  
Sybil came round the desk then, standing next to the men as she held out her reports.

“If you and Uncle Thomas wish to talk, of course, feel free, but you're right we don't have much time here for reunions.”  
(Behind her Bates huffed out a bit at Barrow's new title conferred.)  
“Perhaps another day?”  
O'Brien snatched the paperwork and stuffed it in her satchel.

“I'll be back next month, and I'll expect to see better than this,” and with a sneer she started for the door just before a flummoxed Thomas found his voice to speak. 

 

“Miss O'Brien,” he started. “Mrs. Lang, rather. I believe you might help us with the return of a certain item from the big house. A necklace?”  
She turned and almost burnt him with her glance, as though daring him.  
“I still know enough to make things difficult for you or this one,” and she tilted her head at Jimmy ever so slightly. 

“As do I, about you,” Thomas said evenly. “So if you manage to FIND the item and help us retrieve it,  
I'd be more apt to not press things further on that particular matter at least.  
“There's enough of a war going on these days.”  
(And he had no real proof anyway, just the word of Clarey about what had been seen.)

 

O'Brien stood in the doorway, considering, looking at each man individually, then at Sybil, and finally back to Thomas again.  
“You obviously don't keep grudges as long as I do.”  
She smirked.  
“Though I'll consider the offer.”  
And with that, Mrs. Lang left.

While behind her Jimmy muttered “good job, you, Uncle Thomas” and sniggered,  
Sybil gave Barrow a (most inappropriate) public hug.  
With it, Thomas flushed with pleasure but steadied himself,  
remembering he'd need to keep an eye out to make sure  
Sybil continued safe.

It wasn't quite done yet, after all.


	57. Chapter 57

-  
-  
-  
(Note: blanket fictionalized WAR warnings.  
The wedding would have been the end of July, the O'Brien start, then Marigold's issue going into August. The Sybil-Daniel letter fits into September....so.......  
This battle is in Oct-Nov. 1942. In case anyone's trying to keep track.)

 

They needed a victory, they did.   
Any brief smiles on the home front had given way to the crushing news from abroad.   
Months had gone on with skirmishes and stalemates as the British in North Africa had a long run of bad luck.  
The new general, Montgomery, seemed to know his onions, and perhaps they'd make it on this round.  
For if they didn't, the disaster would be too much to bear.

 

Andy's battalion were dug in once again in a superior defensive position at a place called El Alamein, a place they'd (unfortunately) been before.  
Rommel's usual plans seemed to be to sweep around and hit from an unexpected side, but the sea and the landscape here made that hard to do.  
The British were certainly organized with their formations and supplies, once again playing the long game, hoping proven strategies would win. 

 

And that particular morning of tense waiting found Parker leaning against a motor pool lorry,  
smoking a cigarette, expression a stoic blank.  
His eyes narrowed slightly in his tanned face, looking over the officers who'd jumped off this recent incoming transport.  
Fresh, clean uniforms-- though soaked with the requisite sweat.  
Virtually unsoiled in a land where dust blew through with every wind.

Where had these chaps come from?  
Andy snorted. More cannon fodder, he'd wager, grimacing slightly.  
(He'd seen too much of that.)

 

“Let's see if anyone can sign for the things and get back to Cairo by nightfall, so we don't have to overnight in this God forsaken place,”  
the oldest man said, voice carrying to where Andy stood.  
Well that wasn't very nice, Parker smirked, flicking an ash and blowing out rings of smoke.  
He'd almost perfected the maneuver, the rings of smoke.  
Hated to think he'd taken up the habit, but found it calmed his nerves.  
At least as much as it could.

 

“Their CO will have to sign, and then it's to find the aid station,” the younger man reasoned.  
And the voice made Andy smile even before his brain could tell him why.

George Crawley.  
Thomas had written him that the young man was somewhere over in the thick of things, but he hadn't realized he was this close in.  
“Master George,” Parker managed, raking a hand through his hair and trying to straighten up to look proper.  
Even in the desert, he didn't want to look like a scoundrel in front of Master George.

Georgie turned, always smiling.  
But the smile grew wider when he saw who had hailed him.  
“Andrew? Is it really you? How are you out here?”

 

“Do we ever go anywhere that you haven't made friends?” the older man grumbled, but didn't seem too put out.  
“I'll talk to the CO, while you socialize, but then I'll need you with me at the aid station.”

“Yes, of course. Thanks awfully, Gerald. I don't mean to be a bother, you know,”  
and Georgie grinned again, first at his partner, then back at Andy.  
He quickly closed the gap between them and offered his hand to shake.  
(Andy wiped his palm on his pant's leg, almost didn't want to offer it back for the grime,  
but he did.)

 

“Golly, Andrew. It's good to run across a familiar face. Mama said you were somewhere out here near where Atticus was.”  
The boy paused, going somber.  
“You've heard?”

“Yes, Master George. He was close by when it happened, though not where I could see him...fall.”  
Andy looked down, then.  
He wanted to tell George how heroic Atticus was, but he also was at war in his mind that this was young George Crawley.  
Not only was he much younger than Andy, but he'd also been a student right up until the footman had left,  
making him still a tender lad in his mind.

 

“Stop with the 'Master George' business, or you'll have me embarrassed. It's just George.  
Though I did make it from 2nd Lieutenant to Lieutenant already, so isn't Barrow proud about that?”  
And George laughed, thinking of his Barrow, sitting back in the office reading his letters home.  
The thought pleased both men somehow.

 

“What are you doing here, Lieutenant?” Andy asked, feeling the informality of a Christian name was too much, but he'd risk the impertinence of a question.  
Knowing the boy as he did.  
“Monty's built up an incredible force out here. We're just bringing in a few last machines for the aid station. Stuff that's usually kept in Cairo, but might be useful on the field when there's....a fight.”  
He'd hesitated over the last bit, knowing the fight would be much more of a threat to Parker than to himself.

“We need a win,” Andy said simply. “And we'll get it through shear numbers if we have to, I guess.”

George nodded, studying the other man.  
He'd looked the grizzled, grim veteran when he'd first turned, but now there was something more of Andrew back in the man's eyes.  
Some sort of gentleness, sad though it was, weakly shining through.

 

“So where can we meet up for a drink after I get the equipment stowed? Perhaps you and friend to sit with me and Gerald?  
“I need to slow him down somewhat. Don't want to go back across that desert with him at night time.  
He's both a demon for speed and he doesn't like to be out of the bounds of the city, so he wants to do an about face if we let him.”

“Perhaps you should though, Master George,” Andy said sincerely.  
“I don't want to be the one to have you delayed here, just in case Monty decides tonight's the night.”  
George grinned.  
“Barrow would tick you off, eh? But they have to have everything set up, surely, so I'd think it's at least a few days off.”

 

And again, he hesitated, not wanting to make himself safe while the other man was not.  
“And I'd be of use if it came to that. I'm not some hot house flower, you know. Crawleys know how to fight.”

But the grin came back.  
And the boyish good looks, blond hair, casual stance.  
Andy knew the lad meant well.  
But George Crawley didn't look like he'd ever been in a fight in his life.

\---

Still, George managed well enough with his fists later, though.  
Andy was right impressed. 

They'd had a drink and played some cards, he and Teddy joining in with George and Gerald.  
A number of others had joined, too, off and on through the hours then fallen out as the stakes got too high.  
Eventually, George Crawley won the accumulated pot.  
(Course he did, blessed as he was in all things. )

 

Andy couldn't be angry at the boy's luck, though he did worry for a bit about what Daisy might say—  
until Master George slipped his portion back into his chest pocket while pretending to go for a cigarette.  
“You really shouldn't gamble with me, Andrew. Barrow and I used to play for biscuits, you know. Once I got old enough that I might get sent to school.”  
George smiled widely. “He said it was a very necessary skill. That and good cricket. I was quite set.”

The boy walked out then, almost before Andy could react to it.  
But within a minute he went after him, wanting to protest, wanting to thank him, wanting to say a more proper goodbye in case they didn't get time after this.  
And he'd walked out into a fight.

 

“You stupid officers. Think you're so special, have to take everything away from a working bloke like me. Every day.”  
Ginger was facing George down, hulking over him as though some drunken corner of his mind thought it his right to have back what he'd bet and lost.  
“Saw you give that git Andy back his. So give me back mine.”  
The large man leered. 

Parker came forward then, wanting to face off the man, perhaps manage to diffuse things, but at least make himself the target and not George.  
As George turned his head, sensing someone incoming, Ginger took a swing and hit the boy square on.  
Georgie staggered back and almost fell. 

And seeing blood on George's face was the tipping point in a long war of nerves.

 

“You stupid, bloody arse hole,” Andy yelled then, yelling it loudly enough to alert those left back inside.  
“You arsehole tosser. You....” Andy stuttered, rushing forward,  
not entirely used to swearing and running out of immediate words.

 

George Crawley took the moment to hit back.  
Putting both hands together, he swung them up in an arc that connected with the underside of Ginger's jaw.  
There was a crunch.  
“Mandible,” George muttered grimly as the larger man howled and bent over in half, clutching at his face. 

Double handed again, George brought his swing down on the back of the thug's head and neck.  
“Cervical vertabrae.”

 

Ginger rolled into the dirt, with Georgie dancing back toward Andy's side.  
The soldier came to rest in front of them, with Andy taking what amounted to the final shot,  
kicking him square in the behind.  
“Arsehole,” he muttered sourly. 

“Coccyx, actually,” said Georgie grinning at last. “Good shot, you.”  
“We need to have your CO lock that man up for attacking me like that.  
“Why I'm an officer. Surely that's some sort of offense, even out here in the middle of nowhere.”

 

And as the others finally spilled out to find what was the matter that caused all the ballyhoo,  
Andy smiled.  
“Wouldn't mind if he was locked up somewhere safe, Master George. I don't mind telling you.  
And I'll have to thank Barrow next time I write him. I'm not sure if that was from cricket or something else, but he certainly taught you well.”

“Oh,” drawled Georgie lightly. “Not cricket, no.  
“I'm not best at cricket, actually. For that, you should really see Sybbie play.”

\---

They had Ginger out of commission and on his way by the next morning.  
Sadly, George Crawley had to go back to his posting, too. 

Sadly and yet happily, for Andy was grateful to whatever God was still watching over things that the boy would be returning before the big push started.  
Would be safer back across the desert in Cairo.  
“Be careful with your speed demon driver, Lieutenant Crawley,” Parker managed. 

Then yelled as he stood waving, “Best of luck to you Georgie. Absolute best of luck.”  
Thinking of him as the tiny lad he'd first met way back when.

Smiling and waving his cap in the air, George yelled back.  
“Same to you, Andrew. See you back at home after the war.”

\---

If only things had stayed that bright.  
Andy'd already written home, had even left an advanced letter with Barrow,  
but he wrote again that night. Sure the British would win (as Monty said),  
but not sure he himself would survive.  
(They'd been told to stand and fight or die, not to think on any retreat.)

 

He was ordered to be clearing mines again, and took his time putting together the equipment.  
It would be a long, stressful time of work, but duty called and he must obey.  
Anti-tank mines—remove the igniter.  
S-mines, which sprayed shrapnel when stepped on—insert a nail into the tiny hole that had once held the safety pin.

Andy's hands gave a twitch at the thought, and he lit up a last cigarette to calm himself.  
Daisy will have my head when I get home, for starting smoking, he thought.  
(If I get home, he thought.)

 

There was a full moon when they started their advance.  
A full moon hanging over the flat of the desert, still and calm except for an occasional night bird call.  
Beautiful, really, if one could have enjoyed the sight.

But soon enough the tanks rumbled like thunder, waved on by military police  
whose white gloves stood out in the darkness. A choreography of death.  
They had more tanks.  
They had more men.  
Would it be enough?

 

For it was a meat grinder they were facing, and they didn't at first reach their planned goals.  
Deaths. Delays. Frustrations.  
Monty, at one point, realigned and regrouped, calculating their wins and losses.  
And throughout the battle, both men and equipment were strategically sacrificed by the officers,  
sent into situations where their survival was impossible, all to attain the overarching goal.

 

Men fighting until they could fight no more, sinking down finally whimpering.  
Wounded men groaning, voices rasping as they called out for help from the swirling desert dust.  
Men forced to abandon comrades to serve the greater needs of the many. 

They'd been trained for this, forced to run additional drills this last month in the desert.  
Acting now mechanically, reflexively on what they'd learned.

 

Montgomery had faith in the strength of their training now, and his faith was rewarded.  
For finally there was  
hope. 

Losing tank after tank, a few got through. (Sheets of flame from those hit.)  
They broke the line. (Treads of tanks now pushing forward, even over Germans in gun pits.)  
They won the day. (A ragged and exhausted cheer echoing here and there.)

 

And Rommel, seeing defeat, ordered a retreat to the west, thinking to regroup.  
(Leaving behind the torched remains of equipment They'd lost. Leaving behind corpses of men They'd seen die.)  
And again, the desert swallowed the sound of men and became silent  
whistling wind and gritty sand.

Standing in that gutted vastness,  
the British finally saw the possibility of a victory in Africa.  
And it started at El Alamein.

(But, thousands killed, thousands missing, thousands wounded--  
Oh, what a bloody cost.)


	58. Chapter 58

-  
-  
-  
The bells rang out in England, not to warn of invasion, but in thanksgiving for news of a significant win at last.  
It was 12 November, 1942 by the time the British recaptured Tobruk and Churchill ordered the bells to ring, sure that this signalled a real change of fortune in the war.  
At last. 

“Not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning,” Robert muttered to himself, sitting with Cora while he read his newspaper.  
He looked up, enouraged, “Well, at least we've made a good show of things and finally have some good news.”

“Not that you ever doubted it,” Cora smiled. Her husband's buoyant optimism sometimes was the source of family jokes,  
but it really did keep them going when things got dark.  
“I've a letter from Georgie,” she added. “He's been too busy with hospital business to see much of the city, but he'll try to see if Kemit's or his family is still in residence there.  
He did manage to locate the professor and make his introductions, and says the man remembers us well from back when we were over years ago.”

 

(Robert had his grandson go seek out the other old man, knowing it was always useful to have local connections, always good to have friends.)  
And now the earl chuckled.  
“The professor remembers you, undoubtedly. I was just a nuisance who happened to be your husband.”

“Robert,” Cora admonished, but her blue eyes twinkled none the less.  
Her husband had always been a bit of the jealous type, though she'd never given him (much) cause.

 

“Georgie says the hospital is still far too busy with wounded, but that he and the staff are entirely safe.  
They'll evacuate the doctors and nurses if the front shifts, but that it looks like it's actually moving the other direction with this latest turn.”  
She frowned. “The censor got the part after that, so it must have been too much to ask how many miles they were improved.”

“But it IS improved,” Robert said, patting her hand, agreeably. “And we should celebrate that things are finally going in the right direction toward justice at last.”  
“Shall we ring for champagne, my dear?”

\---

Thomas returned from the sitting room with a bit of a smile at the corners of his mouth, a little less fright teasing at the back of his brain.  
“His lordship's certainly excited by the news, so the official word is everything rosy.”

Daisy and Phyllis were standing by the pile of servant's mail, re-reading it for the third time.  
“Andy said he's doing fine, but he's in hospital for a gash he got. Can't yet walk with it, but says it will be right soon enough.”  
Daisy chewed her lip and looked at Thomas, hoping he would help fill in the blanks. 

 

Sometimes, she suspected, the butler held out a bit in the sharing of letters, but usually he managed to do the right thing.  
Since every scrap of writing was like a little nugget of gold.  
“And he says he's fine in mine, too,” Thomas said placidly. “Went down early in the battle, of course, but will heal up soon enough.”

He let her see the letter then, though the gash was described a little more thoroughly in his, without all the soppy parts added to flesh out the page.  
If he was strong enough to withstand reading Andy the Romantic, he'd let her see a bit of Andy the Soldier. (Though Never if he thought it revealed something so horrific that Andy was trusting him to keep it safe.)

 

“They have that penicillin, now, according to Master George,” Thomas scanned down through that letter as Daisy grabbed ahold of the second one of Andy's.  
(He skipped the part about it being supplied in quantity to the soldiers in North Africa over those in the other fields due to what was called 'Casbah Disease.'  
Would Daisy know what VD even was, though? No, he was probably safe. And so would Andy's wound be, thanks to the miscreants.)

“We had so many problems with infections in the Great War, but it's a new world now.”  
Thomas folded that note and put it in his jacket pocket.  
He never felt right handing over George's letters as he'd decided to do, most times, with Andy's or Daniel's.  
But he could at least add that fact from one to further ease Daisy's mind.

 

“So you really, truly think he'll be fine, Thomas?” Daisy asked, hand shaking a bit with the letter she clutched.  
He straightened up and carefully gave her the best approximation he could of his old, arrogant smirk. (Sargent Barrow reporting.)  
“Well, from what he describes, the only bad news is that it's not bad enough for a blighty. They've patched him up, and will give him time to heal.”

He took back the proffered letter, then allowed his face to relax back into the normal one he now could wear almost every day.  
“Which he will do thoroughly, I trust.” (No need to dwell on the pain of recuperation and therapy.)  
Thomas smiled at Daisy.  
“He'll be fine, Daisy. Now we'd best get back to business or it's us what won't be fine.”

 

She breathed out and nodded.  
“Thank you, Thomas,” she said.  
“And at least we know no one's under the gun for a few weeks at least....” then she gave a slight huff “other than random bombardments, of course.”

“Of course,” he smirked.  
What was life without the risk of a bomb dropping on the stable, after all?

\---

“You hadn't ought to jump in front of direct fire, Andrew. Didn't they teach you that?”  
George Crawley hadn't been able to see Parker again since he'd first been brought in from the field.   
Crawley'd been needed for more serious cases as the flow of injuries arrived almost non stop for a while. 

Medics to aid station; aid station to collecting station; collecting station to clearing station then, in Parker's case stable transport to the general hospital.  
His friend, Teddy, had been diverted to a field hospital, needing surgery immediately.

 

But Crawley was down now, checking the chart and rechecking the wound they'd tended with Andy unconscious.

“Didn't do me much good, did it?” Andy said, not trusting his voice much.  
He'd been like this the entire time, the matron had told George. Had written home, but other than that, Despondent. Silent.  
(But, then again, so were many of the men.)  
George wasn't going to let him sink much lower, though, that was for certain.

 

“Oh, I don't know. You'll walk again fine, once all that heals, though it will leave an impressive scar.”  
Georgie smiled, hanging back the clipboard on the end of the narrow bed.  
“I do know that you saved your friend's life, though. Surely that ought to cheer you up.”

 

Andy looked up then, almost not daring to hope he'd heard right.  
“But they said at the transfer...they said....”

“Don't know what they said, but I've checked the incoming patient list and saw him scheduled to be here shortly.  
He's stabilized, and it's now for Dr. Carroll to do some clean up work.”  
George sat down in the chair near Andy's cot and smiled even more widely than before.  
(There we have the solution. )  
“He does quite the artistic stitchery our Dr. Carroll. And your friend Teddy should be fine.”

 

“I brought you these, by the way,” the younger man said, breaking the slight tension of the moment, seeing Andy's eyes suddenly glistening soft.  
He threw down a well-thumbed magazine, a pack of cards, and some chocolate. (Emptying them out of overstuffed pockets, the same way he'd done as a child.)  
“I thought it might help you while away the time, since he won't be up and around as well as you for a bit.”

Andy huffed out, both in relief and amusement. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.  
“I don't know if it'll help me to practice m'cards, you know. I'm rubbish at cards.”

“Maybe not,” George nodded, rising. “but I'll still come down and play a hand with you when I get the odd minute,  
just to try to keep you in enough practice that you won't embarrass the honor of The House.”

 

He grinned, and pushed a shaggy fringe of blonde hair out of his eyes.  
Then, with a bit of a pat on the end of the bed,  
George was gone.

 

 

-  
-  
-  
Churchill speech Robert was reading, intercut with crowd/refugee/battle scenes  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mkvf1-ROsY8

Later ceremony to mark graves, El Alamein  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gl4aH2fEiIA


	59. Chapter 59

-  
-  
-  
(Note: Lift out chapter for those of you who have Joe dead. You can NOT just substitute a stalwart pal's name in this particular entry today.  
Also, m/m, skip if you don't read the more shippy bits.)  
-  
-  
-

 

Thomas had been quite spikey summer into autumn, what with the news from North Africa being so bad.  
A sort of frantic anxiety had been building up in him.

He'd laid it off to all the work running the big house with limited staff. Or the blasted ARP duties that sometimes took his free time.  
“You know there's never enough time to keep up with what needs to be done,” Thomas complained to Joe over dinner at the end of what should have been his half day.

“Fussbudget. Stop thinking you can still get everything done when there's a war on.”  
The gamekeeper had passed him more of the curry and smirked as he took a rather large second helping.  
“I've no patience for you working yourself to death just to prove a point.”

 

“Carson would be appalled at things,” Thomas grumbled, swallowing before speaking though—manners reflexive even this late at night.  
“Carson's not in charge, and you don't have his staff. Didn't things crash a bit for the old man back in our war?”

Thomas had chewed as he mulled it through.  
“Dunno. It always seemed to run well enough from where I was looking, but I didn't much pay attention to that, busy as I was with the patients.”  
“Guess they might have felt the same pinch.”

But it still had been building up, and Joe could see it.

 

“You need to NOT hold it all in, not make it all your job. Share it around a bit or let some of it go,”  
Joe had said it reasonably enough, but stopped from further comment as he saw Thomas tense.  
“Anyway, you'll do what you need, I'm sure.”  
(Soothe, don't lecture, Miller reminded himself.)  
“Just as I'm sure you'll like pudding tonight.”

And he'd smiled, knowing Thomas's every weak point, one being chocolate.  
Thank heavens for ticklish spots and chocolate, thought Joe. I'm sure they've allowed the avoidance of many domestic disputes.

 

\---

At least Thomas had managed to relax a bit back on the night after Sybbie had called him Uncle Thomas,  
had been proud, had laughed at himself being proud, then stood there embarrassed in the living area as  
Joe teased, and kissed, and laughed with him.  
(“Surely 'uncle's' a demotion for what those children feel for you,” Miller had said, knowing that even Sybbie, with her doting father, still loved Barrow as much as a child ever could.)

Events that should have tided him over.

\---

 

But October had been almost entirely grim.  
And the tension again built, the night terrors back.  
As Thomas was the support for so many people. 

Held himself in check as he told Daisy things would be right. Listened in and heard Lady Mary's worries without reacting, or if she made eye contact, gave back a firm nod. (He'll be fine, my lady. I know it.)  
The butler was coiled like a spring, just waiting to let go.

 

Joe'd been thankful to hear the bells ringing and read the headlines that November morning.  
He'd been thankful for Britain, obviously. But he'd mainly been thankful for Thomas.

The weight would be lifted some.

And Thomas had been glad of it, seemed to take things in stride, bringing champagne to the upstairs, celebrating with Daisy and Phyllis below.  
On the outside he was pleasant and calm, while on the inside the walls began to crack a bit,  
what with letting himself feel relief.  
Letting down his tightly held grip on emotion. 

\---

By night time, he knew he needed to be with Joe, even if it wasn't his half day,  
sneaking off down the path in the dark.  
He'd be exhausted in the morning, too old for this really, but he needed to see Joe  
Now.

The door to the cottage was never locked, and  
Thomas was inside and up the stairs in the space of a moment, entering the bedroom  
before Joe could come thoroughly awake.  
“What?” the keeper had managed before Thomas was on him, kissing.

 

“Fucking, what?”  
But this time there was more awareness behind it, a bit of a rumbling chuckle.  
He'd heard the news and knew how life affirming it could be to know you'd survived the battle, after all.  
And Joe didn't mind be awakened in such a fashion. Not at all.

Thomas had smothered him almost then, kissing and biting and struggling with the bed clothes, with his pajamas. Palming the length of him, before trying to get through the cloth.  
A button hit the floor and Joe outright laughed. 

 

“Slow down just a moment. Get your clothes somewhat off at least.”  
Thomas paused and looked down, almost feral.  
And the keeper reached a hand out, caressing his cheek.  
“Take your clothes off for me, love. And then we'll have all night.”

 

His voice came out rough.  
This Thomas was not his usual Thomas, the man he'd come to love and with whom he so easily fit.  
But he accepted him in any transformation.

Barrow swallowed, adam's apple working, and seemed to come a little back to himself.  
Flushed as his brain came more back in control of his need.  
Joe kissed him and began to work at the hem of Thomas's shirt tail, sliding a hand under, raising it.  
“Take your clothes off, and get into bed, you silly bastard.”

 

Hastily he'd done it, still not talking.  
Clothes thrown over the chair not folded for once.  
Messy in his haste.  
He was chilled a bit with the outdoor air, and shivering from both that and his want.  
“I feel...” Thomas began, but ground to a halt, helpless. “I feel...” he drifted off.

“Yes,” Joe said. “You feel.”

 

And began to kiss him back, bristles of his chin rough on Thomas's porcelain skin.  
Still so pale and handsome, in spite of the years.  
Thomas lost himself in the relief of it, and moaned.  
Let go of shame, let go of control, let go of himself.

“It's right. I've got you. I've got you, love,” Joe said to him  
savoring the taste of him as Thomas offered himself up.

 

And he covered him with his warmth, moving to hold him,  
take him.  
Love him as well as fuck him.  
Murmuring reassurances about life and about love and about them,  
until they both came undone.

Joe held him as their breathing slowed and came into sync.  
“You need to not hold it all in, love. I've told you that before.”

A gentle nagging then, as Joe's hand began to card through Thomas's hair,  
even though he loved to see it mussed.

 

Thomas looked at him, back to himself now.  
“I don't know what came over me.”  
Joe snorted.  
Thomas began to chuckle.

“Well,” said Joe, reasonably. “Since you've gone and sneaked out, anyway, might as well stay the night and see if it'll come over you again.”  
And they laid there, laughing like two youngsters,  
two middle aged men drawing the blankets up and holding each other comfortably  
talking  
(at least until a little later in the night.)


	60. Chapter 60

-  
-  
-  
“Miss O'Brien,” Thomas had smirked at her, seeming to casually pass her on the walk as she entered the WVS.  
But it wasn't a casual encounter, the old woman knew.  
He'd been there every time now that she'd come to town, must have arranged his errands to make it so he could have done.

Even after she'd returned the necklace, parcel post.

Yet that smirk of his, especially this morning. It made her feel like a vole trapped by a cat, it did.  
And Sarah O'Brien was nobody's captive, no.  
She hated not being able to fight back. (Had slid in and slid out each time, knowing to avoid it in the first place.)

 

So even the pleasant, “Good morning, Miss O'Brien,” followed by a tip of his hat, set Sarah's teeth on edge. 

“Thomas,” she'd bitten back the greeting, holding her tongue to not say more,  
to have the argument they should have all those years before when actions had taken over  
any chance of explanation.  
(Why would Thomas Barrow have needed explanation for how he'd hurt her? Surely he wasn't a fool.)

 

And now it was to deal with young Sybil Branson....Barrow...again.  
The air was crisp, the mists well cleared away on a bright day, but she couldn't enjoy it.

Sarah tensed as she entered, seeing the girl there acting confident and proud as though she ruled the village when her father was a chauffeur.  
(That young Miss needed a dose of reality, but now it wouldn't be for the old woman to dole out.) 

“Good morning, Mrs. Lang,” Sybil said, cheerily enough, smiling slightly as though in on a secret joke.  
“Mrs. Barrow,” O'Brien grated back, thinking herself that secret joke.

 

The Downton Centre was nothing more than a ragtag collection of desks and chairs, charts and maps pinned to the wall, a slight office space in the back where Sybil waved the old woman now.  
Yet she worked in it as though it were an entire kingdom. Silly child.

“Your reports, please?” (How the last word choked.)  
More politely than before, Sarah completed their tasks. (Have pride, but steady on.)  
The old woman still turned back one form, pointing out the error, but did it more quietly, and  
was surprised when Sybil nodded agreement and gave an apology rather than her usual  
Impudent Look.

 

“If you'd care to have a cup of tea, I'll fix that right up,” the girl said, being nothing more than her usual kind self.  
(For she would have been kind all along if the old bat had allowed her ever to be.)

“Thank you, no, but I'll sit if you don't mind,” Sarah countered.  
She'd never quite dared to sit in the presence of a family member, even Sybbie.  
“Of course,” the girl encouraged, moving past her to the typewriter.  
Mrs. Lang sat,  
for once taking in a moment of peace, resting and listening to the ticking of the clock on the shelf behind her.  
The ticking a soothing thing to her harried soul.

\---

Sam, however, wasn't having a peaceable morning of it.  
First, Frank got out and scared him by running toward the big house, where he knew the pup would find trouble.  
They'd been taking in the holiday tree for decorating, doing it early since they were to have early guests.  
And the dog, nimble as that, slipped in with the men and only Master Edward had saved them all from disaster. 

 

Frank loved Edward.  
True, the rapscallion dog had been intent on finding and wooing Apepi,  
and they'd lost him for a bit.  
But when Sam went around to the back and sent word up to Clarey and Edward by way of the maids, the boys had gone on a covert search.  
Quiet calls, a few whistles brought both dogs running,  
bowling over Edward in frenzied enthusiasm.

Sure of treats.  
(For Master Edward frequently slipped the dogs treats.)  
Laughing, the dogs were scooted down the back stairs, his lordship none the wiser.  
Frank still dancing around Edward.  
Apepi, cocking her head, dignity now restored a bit, waiting her turn.

 

Daisy just rolled her eyes.  
“Get that beast out of here before Mr. Barrow comes back or you'll have more trouble than you would have had with his lordship.”

“Barrow likes dogs,” Master Edward protested.  
“Barrow loves dogs,” Daisy said, agreeing, “But Frank isn't allowed in the big house visiting.”  
Neither Master Edward or Clarey were farm children, and she wasn't explaining any further.  
“He's too muddy from being outside. And he'd be unhappy in here where he can't run.”

 

It sufficed.  
And after a good deal of what should have gone toward feeding the Abbey's humans at dinner,  
the dogs and boys were satisfied and went their separate ways.

“Heaven help us,” Daisy said to Phyllis, who'd come down at the end of it.  
“Boys.”

\---

“That's the very topic I need to ask about,” Phyllis had said quietly.  
She'd barely had a break that morning.  
They were expecting a veritable invasion, both from the Levinsons and Lady Rose.

There were rooms to air and linens to refresh.  
All the extra little corners that now only got cleaned once a month instead of daily  
had to be immediately done.  
Standing, sniffing slightly at the smell of wet dog, Phyllis shook her head.  
So many things to do, but the Boys....

 

“Mr. Moseley has a problem at the school, and I'm looking around for someone who might help.”  
The housekeeper smiled softly, following Daisy back into the kitchen.  
“It's the boys, you see. They've lost their scouting leader.”

Daisy made a derisive sound, looking at the woman with utmost skepticism.  
“Don't tell me you think I'd in any way take a group of boys on with scouting. I've enough to do as it is.”

 

“What's going on?” Anna said, coming through. “Why're we standing here, then?”  
She'd been up helping Lady Mary unpack trunks, and she was not in her very best mood. 

“Phyllis has some daft notion that one of us would know something about scouting with boys.”  
Daisy frowned. “And I've been talked into a lot of things, but that wouldn't be one.”  
Anna's mood lightened somewhat in amusement.

“No, I don't see that at all.” (Actually she could see it, imagining the scene in her mind's eye and knowing it would be comic.)

 

“Perhaps Thomas?” asked Phyllis.  
And Anna laughed outright. Even Daisy grinned, fingertips reaching to cover her mouth so it couldn't be seen.  
“He's excellent at sports,” Phyllis reasoned.

A slight giggle escaped Daisy. (When had been the last time she'd giggled? It almost made her want to tear up in guilt when she thought.)  
“It would be worth something to make him dress up in one of those silly uniforms,” Anna suggested,  
knowing exactly what Daisy had imagined.  
“Out with all the insects about.”

 

Phyllis smiled, too, then.  
Thomas had never done scouting as a child, of course, had never stood solemn & nobbly kneed in one of the outfits.  
(Were there even such things back then, when children were expected to work?)  
And he definitely didn't like insects, killing them with fastidious precision all about the house.

“Don't make fun,” Daisy protested.  
“I'm not,” Anna grinned reassuringly, nicking a bit of veg off the chopping block.

 

“We'll think on it, Mrs. Moseley,” Anna promised. “Though I don't see Mr. Bates as the type, either.”  
“But now we've far too much to do to slow down.”  
And all of them nodded at the truth of that, parting to scurry back to tasks.

\---

Barrow went back up the road to the Abbey carrying bundles of provisions that the Bakewell's lad had overlooked.  
Fortunately for them, he had some sympathy with their circumstance, knowing that items sometimes had shortages,  
and knowing that they weren't very comfortably settled in their new digs. 

Unfortunately for them, the butler was on a mission.  
So while he didn't utterly rip into the clerk, he wasn't exactly gentle either.

 

“We're all in this together, Mr. Barrow,” Theodore Bakewell himself had stuttered out, indignant, when the clerk fled for the back.  
“In the case of the cinnamon, I would understand the delay, but some of this is just that he forgot.”  
Thomas smirked and narrowed his eyes.  
“And, yes, I know that things might not be running smoothly with limited help, but we can't let our standards totally slip, now can we? Isn't there some motto for that?”

He turned neatly on his heel and left before hearing what reply Bakewell could manage to get out.

All told, the butler'd managed enough of what they needed to be satisfied by the trip.  
Everything was running fast this season, only still November after all.  
But they'd manage.  
The news was good.  
The sun was out.

 

Barrow went, happily enough, back up the path.  
Humming slightly when there was no one near enough to hear.


	61. Chapter 61

-  
-  
-  
“I hope it's not a bother, such a long visit. But I needed to talk to you, as well as some time to breathe,”  
Rose Aldridge entered Downton's great hall next to Cora.  
The children, like stairsteps, came behind her, not as chattery as usual, not smiling as usual,  
but still chins up and walking with purpose in spite of their grief.

 

“Darling, stay as long as you wish. You know we love to have you visit,” Cora gushed, kissing her cheek and smiling over at the rest of the family.  
“Will Lord Sinderby be joining us later? We might have to make some adjustments.”  
Her hand waved vaguely to the tree, already decorated.  
They'd thought it best with the Rose coming to have the actual decorating already out of the way.  
That way the month would be comfortably normal (not omitting the holiday) but not exactly festive (tree trimming with all the disruptions.) 

Still, Lady Grantham didn't want to do anything that might offend the man if he might make a surprise visit.  
Her own father had spent time around many Christmas trees when she was growing up, but  
Cora wasn't sure Lord Sinderby would be agreeable to participating with his grandchildren in that.  
Forewarned would be fore armed.

 

“No, Father and Mother Sinderby are staying back. It's just us,” Rose smiled slightly,  
more a reflex really to mention of the children.  
“Just all of us.”  
She swallowed rapidly, eyes blinking with tears she would no longer allow herself.  
“Almost all of us.”

 

“Golly gumdrops, what excitement do we have here?” Lord Grantham exclaimed, coming into the room then.  
“And why didn't someone tell me that our darling girl had arrived at last?”  
Robert went smiling along, patting a head here or there in the younger ones, seriously studying on an impressive dolly  
and shaking the hand of the oldest boy. (Really still a child, though, he thought sadly. Atticus would miss seeing his heir grow.)

“Rose,” he said, beaming at her when he'd finally made his way through. “We're so happy that you've come.”  
She squared her shoulders and leaned to kiss him lightly on the cheek.  
“Robert! Our port in the storm.” 

 

The noise and bustle tided them over then as staff, male and female, efficiently unloaded the car and took things up to the Aldridges' rooms.  
Barrow had set out a buffet of sorts in the dining room at the time they were to arrive, and had made a few last adjustments, before coming out to nod to Lady Grantham, taking Lady Rose's coat and then turning to gather some of the children's wraps.

“We have something to nibble on in the dining room, if the children are hungry,” Cora suggested.  
“When aren't children hungry?” Rose said, again with that reflexive polite smile,  
nodding back her thanks as they poured from one room to the next.

\---

“It's good to see Rose,” Lady Mary and Tom had adjourned to the study for a bit, hoping to get some work done before the dressing gong rang.  
“You did a good job with the children earlier,” he responded.  
“They weren't too very grubby,” Mary said archly, keeping to her hard hearted pretenses.

 

Tom knew that Mary wasn't the most openly maternal of women.  
(How could she be when her first taste of motherhood had been tied to a car crash and every child brought on a fit of melancholy after their arrival.)  
But she was still a good mother.  
(And that included to Sybbie, too--for which he was thankful. Though the fact that she'd turned up so late and flustered this morning from some meeting didn't speak well of them both)

 

“I think the youngest one might have trouble letting go of that doll when it comes bath time.”  
Tom laughed. “You might be called in to help.”  
Mary rolled her eyes briefly, at the nonsense of being part of bath time, but then softened a bit to a smile.  
“I had one, too, when I was that age. A doll somewhat like that, all bows and ribbons and mine alone, Edith still being in her crib and not spoiling things.  
“When I got the same for Violet, however, she seemed to think nothing much of it. Funny how different children are.”

 

“Maybe Lily will let you play with her doll, then, and you could have tea parties.”  
Tom was openly teasing her now, and she knew it, but she just teased back. 

“Perhaps. I remember how much Sybbie liked the men to be dressed up for her tea parties,”  
Mary smirked.  
“So if she does invite me, I'll make you my plus one.”  
(It was his turn to roll his eyes.)  
“Now let's to work.”

 

Tom sighed slightly.  
“Yes, work,” he agreed. The books held far less fascination for him than they had in years past.  
But he was still going to make sure things ran smoothly, even if now that meant more  
agreeing to what was in front of him than actively arguing the point as he had in times past.  
It was uncomfortable, this Slowing Down.

 

Sometimes he feared very much he was becoming like Lord Grantham.  
And one day, he'd sit happily sipping a drink in the library all day while Mary ran all of the show.  
“Tom?” Mary questioned, eyes concerned, hand going to his arm.  
“Just woolgathering,” he grinned, putting on his usual cocky look.

“You must tell me if this is all too much, you know what the doctor said.”  
But they bent their heads together over the books anyway, in the same way they'd done for years.  
Finding some comfort in the one thing that never changed.

\---

 

“We expect Harold down in two weeks, but it's just us for the duration.”  
Cora smiled at the small dinner group.  
She hadn't invited any outside guests, thinking Rose might not yet be up to it.  
And she was glad, for the young woman still had frequent gaps in which she seemed to drift off thinking, forgetting to utter a word.

“He might be helpful, too,” Rose said, seriously.  
(Her face wasn't made to be serious, or sad, but yet there it was.)  
“Father Sinderby wants us all to convert, and I'm not really sure what to do.”

 

“What?” Robert sputtered a bit over his wine.  
But he checked himself, for once, recognizing that he didn't want to hurt Rose in her grief.  
“I mean, didn't....you...already decide on the course of things?”

“You can say his name, Robert, I won't melt,” a reflexive smile ghosted across her face, leaving before it barely had come.  
“Atticus.” She said it quietly, like its own prayer.

 

“Yes, Atticus and I had decided on things, or at least discussed it. He wasn't as religious as his father, you know.”  
“We thought we could teach the children both traditions and they could make up their own minds when the time came. To be Jewish would require converting, of course, since I hadn't.  
And we thought they could make up their minds over time.”

She paused a bit, hesitating, thinking.  
“We just ran out of time.”

 

They allowed a moment of sadness to pass between them all, in memory of Atticus,  
before going on.  
“And the children?” Mary prompted. “Have they said they want to do what Lord Sinderby is asking?”

“That's just it,” Rose said, quietly using a fingertip to deny a tear's presence.  
“Atticus would have shown them the option of it, the beauty of it without any pressure.  
But his father seems to be insistent. And the children will go along with it, go along with the force of his convictions  
Without it ever really being their choice.”

 

Mary nodded, and looked over at her father.  
“So you need a quiet place without being pushed on it for them to make a true choice.”

Rose nodded.  
“I suppose so, yes.”  
Robert took another longer sip of wine.  
This would be harder than he'd thought.

\---

Even with Nanny and Ann helping, there was a bit of chaos in the old nursery wing as Rose's ducklings came to rest.  
The oldest two were too mature for a nursery, really, and should have been given a proper guest room, but it seemed they were used to staying together.  
So the staff made some adjustments and did just that.

Ann's Thomas was quite wide eyed at the proceedings and at first tried to hide behind the draperies.  
But several of the younger Aldridges unearthed him, and he soon became their source of amusement, being cooed over and petted, with offers of games to share.  
Thomas was used to being passed about by admiring staff members, so it wasn't that large of a leap to strangers.  
Still, he was quite exhausted by the end of it, with his mother finding him curled up with the youngest Aldridge in a corner both quite soundly asleep.  
He having replaced her doll. 

It was going to take some time to get the schedule back under control, Nanny sighed.

\---

“Is there anything to do for it?” Robert asked as they got ready for bed.  
“I'd understand if they chose to honor their father that way when they grew up, but then Rose said he hadn't been very religious, so there's not even that.”

“But you know the oldest boy is the heir, Robert. And there's no way that Daniel Aldridge is going to let go of the desire to have his heir respect their family's traditions.  
“Haven't we all expected poor George to toe the mark?”  
Cora put aside her book on the night table and smiled at her husband.

 

“It's probably Lord Sinderby who feels he's run out of time. I'm sure he expected his son to settle back down into the religion as he got older, and then his children might follow suit.  
“Rose respects their traditions, after all. If Atticus was asking it, she'd be willing.  
“It's just too sudden, too soon.”

 

“Your father didn't force anything on Harold,” Robert countered.  
“And it's all very confusing.”  
Cora gave him a stern look.  
“No, I'll keep my opinions in check about it. Rose doesn't need me to push in. But what if only one child converts, will that make the man happy? Or what if they all do, but Rose doesn't, will that split the family?”  
“I tell you, it's a confusing situation, even without the religion.”

 

Robert kissed his wife.  
“And it makes me wonder about our Sybbie, and her children. ”  
She finally lost her frown and chuckled. (“What?” he questioned.)  
“The miracle has happened. You've admitted Sybbie is a grown up finally, when you think about her having children.”  
And still chuckling at his confused look, she kissed him back and turned out the light.


	62. Chapter 62

-  
-  
-  
Unfortunately, Rose and Sybbie weren't to be the only women of the household   
giving the old earl fits.

A few mornings later, Robert stopped and shook a letter in his hand, waving it in agitation.  
“It never stops.”  
Cora looked at him, concerned; her husband wasn't a young man after all, and his face had turned an alarming shade of red.   
“Marigold,” he gritted out.

“Ah, dear. What now,” and she took the letter from him as he went to get a drink.  
“Goodness,” Cora murmured, scanning through Edith's pages of cramped writing.  
“The poor things.”

 

“Which poor things?” Mary asked, coming in to bring her father back an invitation to dine that had somehow got mixed into her own.  
“Marigold,” her father said darkly. “She's decided instead of getting married, she's going to join the WAAF.”

“Golly,” Mary said, halting and looking back and forth between her parents,  
actually rather alarmed for once.  
“I hope she didn't lose him, then?”

 

“No,” said Cora, finally finishing the first part. “Edith said he still wants to marry her, but she wants to take some time of it. And, of course, she turns conscription age in a few weeks, so while she's thinking she'll take a turn packing parachutes for the WAAF.”  
Cora continued to read.   
Edith, when upset, tended to ramble and the letter was long. 

“So are we set then?” Tom said cheerily to Mary as he came in to fetch her for their walk.  
Then he saw the dark cloud on Robert's face, with Cora even seeming less than bright.  
“What happened?”

 

“Marigold,” said Mary.   
“Poor Edith,” said her father.  
“I just don't understand what might have happened,” said Cora.  
Tom rolled his eyes.   
(There was a war on. Wasn't that more dramatic than personal problems? Looking at the Crawleys Tom realized....apparently not.)

\---

“I do love you, Abe. It's not that,” Marigold Pelham protested.

“But honeybunch, if you love me, you'd say yes to me, not that you want to run off.”  
The young man looked puzzled, but not offended.   
If Marigold said she still loved him, he'd take it as the honest truth of things.  
But he wasn't sure of what she was thinking, and he certainly expected to find out. 

 

“It's just.....it's just......I need a bit of time to grow up,” Marigold said hesitantly.   
She stepped back toward him and was relieved when he took her in his arms.   
“You're grown up enough. I'd think,” he said, smoothing her hair with patient fingers,   
gliding lightly over it in a way that made her almost want to purr.  
Silly thought.

 

“Maybe. But this would give your parents more time to get used to the idea. And if I wait, I'll have to do some sort of service anyway.”  
She smiled up at him.   
“I'd far rather help the WAAFs pack parachutes than serve in the WVS.”

“Or fly a transport?” he said, knowingly.  
(She did have a license, after all. She wasn't the type to serve punch in a canteen to randy officers.)

“They don't have the women go where it's dangerous, but, yes, I could drive a car or fly a plane just as well as any man.  
“And it would free up the man to go fight.”

 

Abe groaned slightly, squeezing her tighter.  
Then he gave a grumbling sort of noise which Almost approached a laugh.  
“I should've known when I fell in love with a wildcat, there'd be some bumps along the ride.”  
“But you'll wear my ring at least? To let the fellas know you're taken.”

Marigold smiled back up at him, snug and secure in his grip.   
“I will.”  
She kissed him, whispering 'I mean YES, I will' into his ear before looking deep into his eyes.

 

“I do love you, you know that. I've just got to do some thinking, before I have to be in charge of an actual family.   
You have to be grown up to be a good wife or mother,   
and that's what I want for you.”

And grumbling he kissed her back,  
wishing for a simpler life,   
but loving the woman he held.

\---

“So what've we heard from the North?” Harold Levinson joked at dinner.  
He knew Cora had called up to Brancaster, and that there was some news brewing.   
He loved his grandniece, though, thought she had spunk.

“The same. She's engaged, but delaying getting married,” Cora shook her head severely  
as her brother chuckled.   
“Just like Mother ,” he barked out, taking a large bite of food.  
“She'll run that boy a merry race, and his family, too, high falutin as they are.”

 

Mary hid her smile, ducking her head.   
She felt somehow like this was the fault of what had happened at Sybbie's wedding.   
But surely not, not if the boy still wanted to marry Marigold.   
This was just the girl being herself. 

 

“She did mention the WAAF, ever so long ago,” ventured Sybbie, looking slightly worried herself.   
There were too many cross currents in the air, too many secrets unspoken.

“And she'll be in no danger working for them until the wedding day's set,” Mary bolstered Sybbie, giving her a look that said things were fine. 

“It sounds quite jolly. I hear some of them fly airplanes from one base to another,” Rose tried, as Robert continued to look glum.   
“It's far less dangerous than a munitions plant, and unless she got married immediately, she's due up on conscription thanks to that new order, you know.”  
It was as long a comment as Rose had given to the general table conversation recently; Cora smiled.

 

“Women conscripted,” Robert veritably growled the word.  
“Didn't like when they got the vote, did you, Robert?” Tom joked.  
And most of them smiled obligingly.

“They had the vote quite early. It wasn't that which I objected to. It was those blasted suffragettes.”  
And giving way, the others laughed, which quieted him some.

 

Barrow poured his lordship more wine.  
The poor man had managed to adapt to many changes during his lifetime.  
But he hadn't much enjoyed the process.  
No, not at all.  
Wine helped.

\---

Of course, Marigold wasn't the only one giving his parents worries about growing up.

“I can't believe Johnny's seventeen in January,” Anna fretted late that night when she snuggled under the covers with her husband.   
“I don't want to remember what age that makes me,” he grumbled back.  
She swatted him, playfully. 

“Makes you no older, since I'm certainly not admitting to being older.  
But our boy is going to be seventeen.”  
She wrapped her arms around his warmth, brushing fingers through the hair of his chest. 

 

And for a few moments she was distracted by the comforting nearness of him, until the mothering part of her brain once again came to the fore.  
She paused.  
“Do you think I need to stop him from working observation duty with Miss Violet?  
I wouldn't think anything inappropriate, but it might look odd if it were to get out.”

 

“No one who knew that girl more than five minutes would think any man could overcome her maidenly modesty,” Bates said teeth flashing in the darkness.  
“She could command an army, that one.”

 

“But how would it look? Should I talk to him, just in case?”  
He wrapped her closer under the blankets. 

“And if there's no trouble, why put trouble in his mind?”  
He kissed her.   
“Silly woman.”  
He kissed her more deeply. 

“Why, Mr. Bates, maybe it's you who should be taught to behave.”


	63. Chapter 63

-  
-  
-  
Rachel Aldridge sat opposite her husband at table, a table that seemed to stretch into eternity when no one else was there.  
They ate silently with the servants looking on glumly, knowing that his lordship was unhappy, and that his unhappiness frequently fell on them. 

“You need to think on how you've pushed them away,” she said gently.  
His hands gripped the cutlery, and a muscle worked in his jaw as he held back the words he wished to say.  
Finally he managed, “I didn't.”

 

“Not quite,” she agreed. “Not yet.  
“Rose loves you. The children love you.” She hesitated. “I love you.”  
(This should not be discussed in front of the servants every fiber in her protested.  
But if not now, when, since her husband no longer graced her with his presence anywhere else.)

“I don't want her to turn into a bitter woman, like her mother,” Rachel said simply.  
And a shudder ran through her. How well they both remembered Susan MacClare,  
Who might well be used as an example for how NOT to live the second half of one's life. 

 

Daniel's grip loosened some, and he nodded.  
He didn't want that for Rose, either, and he didn't want his grandchildren unhappy.  
(Unhappier, an inner voice prompted.)  
It would have been better if he'd addressed the problem more thoroughly out of the gate, should have welcomed her more and worked on convincing Rose to convert.  
She'd always been respectful enough.

“If she'd only converted from the start, none of this would be a problem.”  
He continued looking at his plate, rather than his wife.

 

“You're the one who sent them off on business. Atticus certainly wasn't going to convince her, and you didn't much seem to worry.”  
(He's at least talking, Rachel thought.)

“I thought there'd be time.”

“You thought she didn't fit in. And by the time they came back, she was already having her first child.”  
Rachel motioned the butler to pour more wine.  
“Atticus said to leave her be.”  
Her voice broke a bit over her son's name. (Without a body, she didn't know if she'd ever believe his death real, might well go to her own grave with some small flicker of hope.)

 

“He did. I have. But their son needs to learn things soon if he's to be part of the community. He needs to learn and convert, to carry on the traditions.  
“He's now the heir.”  
The old man was angry again, glaring at her across the expanse of china and crystal.  
Candlelight flickering shadows in the gullies of his face, a man gone to ruin.

“Isn't the first thing, though, that he want to convert? Not that he's forced into it by your need, but that he learns to want it?”  
She left the argument there, simple and thought out.  
“Would they even judge him fit if he doesn't say that?”

 

The butler came and changed plates for them, brought more food,  
acted as buffer.  
And she sat through another evening of uncomfortable silence, not knowing how to get back  
the peace in her home, but still trying to negotiate a way. 

“Shall we go through?” she said when they had finished.  
“I believe Simms has a fire in the fireplace if you'd like to join me?”

 

He considered it, gravely.  
Closed his eyes and seemed to gather his courage.  
“I suppose that might be pleasant,” Daniel said, making an effort,  
though his expression said it would be anything but.

\---

 

“At least Rachel was able to work a solution before there was a fight,” Cora said calmly a few weeks later as she and Robert sat next to each other opening the mail.  
Rose was still with them, but anticipating a return home with the New Year.

“I'm not sure why the rabbi would turn down Rose, though,” Robert said—not realizing how rude it was to consider only that it was for his family to turn down others, never for an outsider to find one of them lacking. 

 

“The children wouldn't have been converting for the right reasons. She said it's the very first question that would be asked, and told her husband if he was coercing them to convert it would never pass muster.”  
Cora chuckled. “And the rabbi agreed.”  
Robert huffed out, thinking how poorly the proud man must have felt about that.

“And, of course, Rose is perfectly fine in letting the children be raised around all the traditions of their family. She always was. As long as nothing's forced on them.  
“That was what she was reacting to, under the burden of grief already.”

 

And the two Crawleys paused for a moment, quieted again, as they thought of how far reaching the grief of Atticus's death would be.  
“All those children,” muttered Robert sadly.  
Cora nodded, yes.

\---

Up in the nursery that night, the cots were full of Aldridges.  
Well, Aldridges...and young Thomas....and Frank.

They'd made them mascots of a sort, both of the toddler and the dog, passing them back and forth almost like comfort objects.  
Thomas was agreeable enough.  
As was Frank. (Fickle beast leaving Sam flat.)

 

Both smiling and wriggling, blue eyes laughing.  
And in grief, it helped to have something to hold onto, something always available, warm and living.  
The Aldridges had done that for each other, of course.  
But they were all grieving, all sad, all caught up in the mystery of death.

 

Somehow having something warm and living and joyous,  
who asked for nothing and was always glad for a hug,  
seemed to help.

Nanny was really not certain she wanted a dog among the children.  
She'd protested most loudly at first.  
But then she'd seen the good of it, and had commanded 'NO' (but then turned a blind eye to Frank appearing there.)  
Made a great show of ushering him forcibly out as they were dressing (but patted him now as he lay guard at the foot of the bed.)

 

Technically, Nanny shouldn't walk through at night at all. She was supposed to be in bed with her husband.  
But the night nurse whom Lady Rose brought along slept so soundly, and Ann could only do so much,  
and Nanny loved children any way.  
So she checked.  
And found them all sleeping for a change.

“Sweet babies,” she whispered as she left them, though none were babies still.  
“Peaceful dreams.”

\---

So it was that the winter came on and the nights grew cold.  
Things moved on apace.  
Rose and her children made the journey home, where they were welcomed with open arms.

 

After two months of roughening her hands packing parachutes (in which she wondered if she'd made a mistake), Marigold was promoted to driving for the officers.  
And Abe still managed to take her out for dinner when she was available, showing off his fine fiance in her trim uniform, proud as he could be....though wishing she was able to come home to their family home, not be separated from him at the end of evenings out. 

 

Andy managed, with the benefit of efficient nursing, to walk without even a limp.  
And when he'd finally gone through the worst of it, George Crawley suggested  
he write Daisy a full description.  
The scar looked like a dragon in a tapestry George'd seen as a child. (Which made it frightening, but also quite beautiful, especially when Daisy considered the alternatives. But George thought she should be prepared.)

 

And on the home front, things had got to that dull tipping point.  
Where the bombs weren't falling as fast, and the piles of rubble cleared, but things still weren't quite back to 'right.'  
Though they'd finally had their victory, and there was hope shining faintly where it could be seen,  
it was still a Dark time in the war.


	64. Chapter 64

-  
-  
-  
(Note: February, 1943 or thereabouts. NSFT=not safe for travel/with females)

 

 

Daniel was no longer fond of trains.  
When he'd been a boy in Manchester, he'd imagined all the wonderful places the trains went, and how if he only could jump aboard one, he'd travel away from where his wretched grandfather ruled like a tyrant over them all. 

How Daniel dreamed of escape. (A man with a cane could still make him hesitate.)   
And trains with their clickety clack wizardry played a role in those imaginings,  
rooted in bedtime stories his mother told him as a child.

 

But trains during the war weren't speedy and wonderful.  
Trains during the war were their own sort of challenge.  
Even the stations looked depressed now, as though they knew the truth of it, and hid their former hopeful splendor beneath cracked paint, sometimes slopped over with tar.  
The signs were down. The stations were hiding.  
And the people who waited looked grey and stoop shouldered, as though they were depressed, too.

 

The travel posters he'd seen as a child were now replaced by lists of seaside resorts that were now off limits to anyone's travel.  
That and a sign that asked bluntly “Is Your Journey Really Necessary”?

Yes, thought Daniel. Yes, it is.  
He'd finally got another leave, and stood shivering at the station trying to make a go of it and travel north to Downton.  
Sybil had hinted several times in her letters that she'd come south instead if he told her in advance, thus saving them more time to be together.  
But the thought of Sybil alone on a train these days (or even with Anna, with anyone short of an accompanying entourage) was unimaginable. 

\---

Meanwhile, at the other end of the line,  
Marigold shoved onto the train with two of her fellow WAAFs, thrilled to be on with it.  
They'd been assigned to travel down south to an airbase and take the conversion course so that they could join the Air Transport Auxiliary.  
Here at last was the chance at a change. 

If she managed to pass the course (why wouldn't she), she'd be able to fly planes back from factory to base.  
If she didn't, she'd either go back to driving officers, or tending barrage balloons, or taking notes on reports from RAF crews after their raids.  
(Important jobs, yes. Thrilling jobs, no.)

 

Abe had balked at her going on such a journey alone, but it wasn't like anyone could take her.  
Besides with the other two with her, she wasn't completely by herself.  
Hundreds of service people were now moving by rail here and there.  
And while it was nothing of what Marigold had been used to--no first class compartment to shelter in, no servants as buffer-- she was happy to shoulder her way in with her kitbag and pack, sandwich carefully wrapped for the trip, feeling independent and prepared.

\---

 

“Oi, hold up!” Daniel yelled, rushing after the train which had started rolling.  
He'd stopped to check the board, just for a moment, and was finding his connection rolling away. 

“Grab a hand,” a soldier on the train yelled back.  
“Run, grab a hand,” encouraged a civilian.  
And after a burst of speed, he did, with them pulling him roughly aboard. 

 

“Thanks, mates, my bride will be pleased to hear about this,” he'd laughed, trying to smooth down his jacket. “Wouldn't want to miss my leave home.”  
And the group had given a bit of a cheer, leaving off their annoyance at his last minute push in.  
Asked him about Sybil. Asked him about the wedding. Teased him about when they'd start having a family. Gawped and smiled at him.  
All with far more familiarity than Danny'd ever seen on a train ride in Britain before. 

 

“Glad to help a serviceman out,” one woman remarked as she exited at the next stop.  
(Who knew where they were with the signs down.)  
“Hope someone helps my man in turn, if ever he gets to come home.”

Smiling at last, Daniel let the train's motion rock him to sleep. 

\---

“What do you mean that we're at the wrong station? This is where they let us off.”  
Marigold's precise diction cut through the noise near the ticket window.  
They were at least thirty miles from where they should have been, and the young women were becoming upset. 

“We need to get back on, Marigold,” Sally said, emphatically.  
“Back on what?” Marigold asked her. The train they'd stepped out of was gone, and though another was on the tracks, who knew where it might be going.

“Sir, you need to help us, please,” she again used that politely forceful tone she'd heard her mother use with editors.  
“We have to get to the base, and I'm afraid there's been a mix up in where we were told to connect.”

\---

Danny woke up to the sound of singing.  
They were parked waiting at a siding in the middle of nowhere.  
Lights, of course, were turned off, with only a very dim glow by the lavatory allowing anyone to see at all.

A group of American soldiers had entered the car at some point, and now  
stretched across any available space, blithely singing to pass the time.  
Such songs.  
Danny chuckled. 

He'd heard they'd been invaded by people from the States, but had only seen a few of them, busy as he was in his battalion, not going out of a night to drink.  
A cheer arose, loud and lusty, as a large engine came, lights blazing down the line. 

 

“The last one gave out, so the army's lending you folks one of ours,” a gap-toothed boy yelled over the tumult.  
And it was, indeed, an American army engine puffing up to the hitch.  
Lights blazing, bell clanging, a cow catcher in the front.  
“Moseley will have fits if this is the engine that takes us the rest of the way,” thought Daniel.  
Not exactly blacked out according to directives from the ARP.

A whistle blew loudly, and the G.I's cheered loudly, and Daniel found himself looking across at a rather startled family of fellow Brits.  
He shrugged at them, grinned at their little boy, and gave a bit of a whoop himself.  
He was on his way to Sybil again.

\---

“That last old man was fresh,” Mable grumbled. “NSFT.”  
Sally laughed. “He looked surprised when you took an elbow to him.”  
“And Marigold told him off in that high sounding voice of hers,” Mable agreed. 

They were sharing their meal now, carefully unpacked, making an impromptu picnic of it.  
The car was crowded, but they'd managed to get seats for a change, which was a luxury apparently.  
Marigold wiped slim fingers on a handkerchief. (Must be tidy.)  
“I wish we knew his number. I'd ring round to his wife, and really give him a scare.”

She'd been the one he'd pinched first, after all. The resulting ticking off and hit from her heavy pack had set him straight, as had her friends entering into the fray.  
For they were friends by now, or at least the start of friends, Marigold realized. 

 

(She smiled. The young woman had never had many close female friends, mainly men who were writers or pilots. Older than her, usually, for she didn't choose uneducated people or people outside of her family's familiar crowd.  
But these women, one obviously working class, one with hair that must have come from a peroxide bottle, intrigued her.  
They, too, had the intelligence and nerve to be pilots. And that was qualification enough for them to begin to be friends.)

\---

 

The men had passed the one young boy over their heads into the tiny train lav, what with no room for the child to walk.  
Every inch of the car was full.  
And the soldiers crammed in there had discreetly turned their heads as the child went.

Helped a bit with his buttons when he did them up wrong.  
Joked and gave him packs of American chewing gum.  
Then passed the boy, now giggling, back up the line to the front. 

 

“Efficiency, friend,” the pug nosed soldier two over from Danny winked.  
“Have a light?”  
And pulling out a pack of Lucky Strikes, he offered one to Daniel, amused when he didn't take it but had matches to share. (“A friend smokes,” Danny explained.)  
“Do ya want a chew at least?” the Yank asked, offering him gum, which the young man took.  
Rather flavorless and bland, but still with a burst of sugar. 

“Ta,” Barrow said.  
“Ta?”  
“Thank you,” he explained, not going into the many variants of the word.  
“Ta,” the man repeated. “I like that. They gave us a booklet of translated phrases, but I don't remember that.”

 

“Translated?” Daniel raised an eyebrow. They both spoke English after all.  
“Hmmm,” the other nodded, rummaging around and handing it over, leaving Daniel to have something to laugh at for a good portion of the way.

\---

 

“I don't know when I've been so tired,” Marigold admitted, although her voice avoided complaint or whine. Yes, her uniform shoes pinched a bit, and they'd had to walk the last mile or so.  
But they'd finally managed the journey, north to south, and were standing at the base gates waiting to report.

A plane took off over the three young women's heads.  
“That'll be us, girls,” Mable grinned.  
“Yes,” agreed Marigold with a burst of pride. “Soon, that will be us.”

\---

Daniel stumbled a bit over rocks in the roadway.  
He'd finally managed the journey, south to north, and was walking the last bit of it, what with no traffic going by to hitch a ride.

Far in the distance still, he could see the top of the tower at the big house.  
“Almost there,” the young man grinned. “And won't Sybil be surprised.”  
He almost felt he could burst with love.


	65. Chapter 65

-  
-  
-  
Daniel'd actually jogged the last bit, feeling silly as he rounded the corner to the servant's door,  
reached for the knob and hesitated.  
Was it rude to his in laws to enter here, rather than up front? (He'd entered up front after the wedding, true, but that was with Sybil on his arm.)

“She'll be downstairs about now, so it's perfectly right,” Daniel muttered,   
entering as he had for years now, almost irritated at the hesitation in his mind.

 

Mr. Moseley was the first to see him, and the teacher stood smiling there in his old livery.  
“Daniel. We weren't expecting you!”  
The old man flushed and sputtered slightly, waving at his clothing.  
“We've the tenant's luncheon, and I'm just helping out, since it's a large group and an extra mid-morning service.  
“M'students're off today, of course.”

Daniel came forward, peeping into the servants hall as he went past the door (empty), following Moseley as he   
mumbled & bumbled his way toward the kitchen.  
“Already planning what to do in the spring, what with winter still on?” Daniel asked   
to fill the uncomfortable silence the old man left in his wake.  
(He'd knocked slush from his boots before entering, after all.)

 

Moseley tutted. “You know Lady Mary.”  
Then the footman hesitated. Perhaps he shouldn't say such things, mild a comment as it was.   
The boy did, actually, know her ladyship now.

Daniel chuckled.  
And any chance at reply was drowned as Daisy and Thomas caught sight of him, words tripping over the other.  
He was home.

\---

“And how was I so far down on the list of people seeing you arrive?” Sybil teased.  
“And why wasn't I told of this leave in advance?”  
She kissed him again, had been kissing him quite frequently, smoothing his lapels, patting his arm, touching him.   
To assure herself he was quite real.

The elder Barrow had to telephone Sybil where she was supervising a government-sanctioned food fair in the village. (Recipes for cooking on a ration, Games for the children, an Official speaker....all left to the other WVSs to contend with when Sybil abruptly—but understandably--left.) 

Daniel, meanwhile, had stowed his gear and cleaned up, thankful that the Crawleys were otherwise occupied.  
(His uncle Thomas had decided it would be acceptable to not interrupt the luncheon with the news, since, after all, Miss Sybbie would want time with him....and would tell her family of his arrival on her own.)

 

“I've missed you.”  
Sybil kissed him again, throwing her arms around him in abandon, since they were alone in their rooms.  
“I've missed you, too,” Daniel managed to say back between kisses.  
And then they didn't say much for a while.

\---

 

“He got here while you were at luncheon, my lady. Miss Sybil greeted him, and they're off... somewhere,” Barrow arranged his features carefully.   
The older man had expected the two youngsters would have had the decency to stay downstairs until Daniel'd been properly welcomed, after all.   
(Or at least quickly manage to be up and back.)

 

Lady Mary smirked.  
“Well, they've a lot of news to catch up on, I'm sure,” she said, as both Barrow and Branson began to show the first signs of a blush.  
(She had enjoyed over the years the game of forcing a blush on Branson. How nice she could add Barrow into her game.)

“Hopefully, Sybbie will manage to bring him back from their...walk...in time for dinner, yes?”  
And Mary went on out to see the last of their guests off, placid as always.   
(Though both men knew she was somehow laughing inside at their discomfiture.)

 

“Some time we should sit and discuss things so Daniel has the best chance of not coming off wrong footed,” Branson began, but when the butler tensed, he hastened  
“Not that he would, necessarily. I just want things to go smoothly for them, just as you do.”

Branson was smart, Barrow knew.  
And he'd been good with George, an excellent father to Miss Sybbie.   
Thomas had almost come to respect him over the years, in spite of the fact it still rankled to call the man 'Mister' and be at his call.

 

“We can do that,” Barrow said carefully.  
“I don't know if he'll ever quite.....become one of them like you have, though.”  
And the butler unconsciously smirked, giving the man's bespoke suit an especially cynical glance.   
(Clothing was rationed, after all. And the Branson he'd first met hadn't been so fastidious in his appearance.)

“It takes years of pretending to learn how to do it as reflex, and years more before it feels actually right,” Tom agreed. “So, no, he might never at that, since they won't be living here.”  
Branson coughed slightly, then leaned in to speak with a lowered voice.  
A lowered and yet more forceful voice.  
“But he'll want to know HOW, and I haven't become such a snob as all that.”

He gave his own sort of smirk. “Thomas.”  
Barrow said nothing, but nodded once to acknowledge the truth of it,  
and then left the room.

\---

It took until far later to gather the entire family to welcome the visitor.

And dinner was proving a rather entertaining affair, thanks to the unexpected help of   
Violet Talbot.  
She might not approve of her cousin's choice. She might have hoped that she'd married 'up' not 'down.'  
But they'd make of things what they could, now that it came to pass. 

 

“Tell us about the war,” Violet commanded. “The newsreels paint such a pretty picture, that they must think us fools.”  
Cora immediately tried to steer the conversation back to calmer waters.  
“I don't think...”  
“Granny. He's not in the killing, so it's not that I'm asking him about that.   
However, he's been through the training on guns and landings. Isn't that worth listening to?”

 

And while Cora didn't think so—at least not over dinner--she let the matter rest, though somewhat alarmed.  
The family looked at him expectantly, and Daniel cleared his throat.   
“Tell them about the Americans,” Sybil suggested.  
“Americans?” piped up the usually silent Edward from his place in the corner.  
(Americans were gangsters and fast cars and dames, G.I.s and Yanks.)

 

And Daniel, mindful of his audience, told them the comedy of the last leg of his journey.  
Then segued over to a tale of how he and his group had gone to amphibious training without knowing his near bunkmate didn't know how to swim.   
(Important, that, knowing how to swim, but not always something city boys knew.)

 

“I've read about the new airfields Churchill ordered, with the rubble of London transported east,” Lord Grantham prompted.   
(Odd to think Rosamund's house might be in a park or an airfield.)

“I don't fly, of course, but I've seen them,” Daniel offered.  
And he described in vivid terms the huge planes taking off. Planes far larger than any of them would have imagined even when he was a boy.  
“Marigold's there,” Sybbie offered.  
“Where?” Daniel asked.   
“At the airfields. Or at least she goes back and forth to all of them from the factories. She's in Air Transport now.”

 

“You should look her up,” Cora suggested. Making connections through family or friends was her strong point, usually. The older woman was surprised at herself not thinking of it before now.

Daniel smiled.   
“She wouldn't know me, Lady Grantham.”  
(Behind her, Thomas nodded. It had taken time to switch from 'my lady' in the boy's mind.  
And he certainly couldn't call her 'Granny' like Sybbie did.)

“Nonsense. You're family,” Cora said firmly.  
(She'd move him soon enough to calling her 'Cora.' Perhaps she could work on it when they went through for drinks.)

 

“Is it helping, though?” Violet asked, steering the conversation back from banalities.   
“The scrap drives and the trainings? Every hand to the pump? Or is there something we should be doing better?”  
“Violet,” Mary said, raising an eyebrow at her daughter.  
“He'd know, mama. He'd know better than we would, and he's bound to have a different way of looking at it than the Generals, being closer there on the ground.”

Again an expectant silence fell.  
And again Daniel tried to marshal his thoughts.  
“I'm not in the heat of it,” he said hesitantly.  
“I'm not sure I know any more than the rest of you. I'm just hoping it all helps in some way.  
If all of us play our parts.”  
He swallowed, thinking of Andy and feeling guilty that so far he'd done so little by comparison.

 

“You've hit it on the head,” Lord Grantham said, saving the moment.   
“You've hit it on the very head, Daniel.”  
And the old man smiled down at the younger one, trying his best to bridge their differences.  
(For in war, one knew that such things didn't matter, didn't one?)

“Perhaps, we should go through?” suggested Cora,   
assuming that it might well be the only way to divert Violet from her goal.

\---

 

“And exactly what was the problem I stepped into when I admired the puppies?”  
Daniel said a good many hours later, as Sybil laid comfortably in his arms.  
“Of all things, I would have thought puppies safe enough.”  
(Beautiful little multi colored balls of fluff, trying to climb out of their fireside basket.)

 

And Sybil laughed. War, yes. Family, yes. But puppies had been the stumbling point.   
(Daniel's look of delight at puppies wriggling over him. Donk's look of disfavor.)  
“I should have warned you,” she managed, but then went off into laughter again,   
choking on it.

Then diverted by his smile in response, the curve of his lips, the dimples,   
she never managed to quite tell him the story of Apepi and that rogue Frank.


	66. Chapter 66

-  
-  
-  
“You'd do far worse than Longfield, and I'll tell you that for nought,” Mason lectured them, as they trailed him from barn to fields.  
It was winter, with most things dead, but there was still a lot to see.  
Sybil smiled at the old man's enthusiasm. He wanted Daniel nearby almost as much as she did.  
(Almost, she thought with an even wider smile.)

“But do you truly need someone to run it? Why not just run it out of Yew Tree?”  
Daniel wasn't sure he was ready to take on a tenancy.  
He'd worked side by side with Mason, true, but he'd still spent far more years as a boy helping repair clocks than he'd ever spent managing a farm.

 

“Phht. I'm not as young as I was yesterday, lad.” (Mason climbed limberly over the stile, belying any infirmity.)  
“And Andy'll be back to splitting his time with the big house when it all comes to an end.”  
(Bertie didn't blink at all when he said it. His faith in the boy's safe return was a balm.)

 

They were in the upper pasture now, with the cleared land stretching away from them down a gentle hill, at the bottom of which was a spring fed pond.  
Daniel could tell that the front ring of currently leafless trees looked liked crabs, and he could imagine crabapple bloom come season.  
(With jellies to follow when sugar wasn't so scarce.)

“It'll be you or some cackhanded infant, that I'll have to be training up new,” the old man said, as though being reasonable.  
He was actually being crafty, of course. The training of a neighbor wasn't his duty....though he might have to take a part in it, come to think.  
“And his lordship would make you a fine house of it. Not a big house, but big enough for all the babies that'll come your way.”  
Mason grinned, and Sybil giggled, blushing.  
(She wouldn't hold his boldness against the old fellow. He was a favorite of hers, after all.)

 

Daniel chuckled briefly, waving the farmer off,  
even though he himself had been thinking that a child's swing could go in the bigger tree over there, and.....  
“One thing at a time,” he cut into his imaginings drily. The Barrows weren't known for large families, nor the Crawleys, either, if you excepted Rose MacClare.  
(Still he gave Sybil a searching look, and she laughed at him, shaking her head no.  
Not yet, you silly man.)

 

Would it be better to give approval now? And what if he didn't come back from things?  
Would Sybbie then feel compelled to move forward as a farm woman or would she still be free to marry someone better than him?  
“Shouldn't we wait until I come back?” Daniel said carefully, not letting his doubt show.  
“But you aren't opposed to it, exactly? Or think it wouldn't suit?” Sybil said, clarifying.

 

“No, it'd suit just fine if I had Mason & Andy to help guide me. I just don't want to fail on you, Sybil.”  
His grey eyes searched her face. “I want to do the best for what you want, too, you know.”

“You'll never 'fail' on me,” she scolded, grinning. “But as to this,  
I've more a fondness for sheep than Aunt Mary's pigs, but I've always liked animals.  
And I know where we can soon get some fine dogs to run the herd."  
(He chuckled. As though those balls of fluff would ever be grown up enough to work.)

“And it's close enough to everyone until we wouldn't be on our own, exactly, yet it's far away enough for some privacy. Which would be nice.”

“Privacy,” he repeated, falling into the deep pools that were her eyes.  
“Yes, privacy is always nice.”

\---

Back in the kitchen, stirring around in the midst of the heat and confusion of the mid day,  
Daisy was jittery with longing for her husband.

Andy missing was now part of her everyday existence, and usually she handled it well.  
But seeing Daniel so unscathed set off a range of feelings inside her, which of course had to be denied until he left at the week's end.  
It did her no credit, that...really truly made her seem an unfeeling sort of wretch.

Still, she wanted HER husband there at her side, blithely going out to the tenancy,  
fondly talking over matters of sheep and pigs, teasing the old people and the twins.

 

She wanted Andy, and she feared for him now.  
Not because he'd admitted to being scarred by the blast of shrapnel, no.  
But because his notes now sounded different, as though a change of mood had come over him.  
Thomas said it would pass when he came home, but Daisy wasn't too sure of it. 

 

Her gentle husband sounded roughened, cynical, pessimistic.  
It wasn't like her Andy at all.  
A scar on his leg would be nothing. But a scar on his soul...  
she didn't know how to deal with that, having depended on Andy so thoroughly as a mainstay  
to heal everyone else.

Distracted, she let slip the dish she held in her very hand. Numb. Forgetting. Wanting.  
The china crashed at shattered at her feet, startling her back to reality.

War just wasn't any more even handed and fair than anything else in Life.

\----

Sitting in the hospital call room, George Crawley sipped at a cup of tea long since gone cold. 

The last man they'd had in surgery had lost a leg to a simple injury badly cared for by the field dressing station.  
Just like that, a decision that would cost the man his job in a post-war world.  
The unfairness of it rankled him.

 

Georgie sighed, shaking it off.  
He didn't have much time before he'd have to go back in. He needed to jot out a letter and, perhaps, even manage to shave.  
He rubbed his jaw and grimaced. (Even at the worst of times, Barrow wouldn't have allowed himself to become so slovenly.)

Never enough time, though,  
(and too much blood.)  
He took up his pen and sat, tongue slightly poking from his lips as he concentrated on the page.

 

14 February

Dear Mama,  
Say hello for me to Sybbie and the sibs. I haven't time to write much, even though there isn't a major battle underway.  
Just a steady sort of incoming from a steady sort of minor ones.  
That's enough. 

I didn't mean to cause such a furor by mentioning Matron Halesworth.  
I'm not getting married without anyone knowing.  
Heavens, we aren't even a couple. Must everyone always read Romance into any mention of a woman I might make?

 

We are too busy for such things, after all.  
It's not like there's much affinity for it, anyway, staring at each other across an operating table isn't conducive to Romance. (I won't go into details, but know you intelligent enough to fill some in.)

Tell Donk that if they ever give me a few days leave, I'll absolutely go out exploring....  
right after I've slept a day straight at the best hotel room I can find, and  
taken a long enough soak in the bath.

(How could I ever have objected to naps and baths as a child? Both sound so wonderful now.)

 

At any rate, I am out of time to scribble this line.  
Know I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.  
And I am not engaged.  
That answers most of my recent letters.

And I love you all, of course.  
Repeat that as a prescription from your son,  
George.

\---

 

“Your brother never did such a thing, truly?” Johnny laughed as Violet told him the story of how her older brother had once tried to 'fly' from a high branch on the big cedar tree.

“So Sybbie said,” Violet, nodded. “I was too young, but tonight at dinner was all Georgie stories  
since we've almost wrung Daniel dry of his.  
And I'll have to admit George had Clarey almost surpassed, until, of course,  
George got some sense.”

 

“I wish Clarey would get some,” Johnny laughed. “Though I suppose he's not as bad as he was.”  
“Nor as good as he should be,” Violet opined. “But he's entertaining at least.”  
Johnny glanced at her, eyes twinkling.

“Is that the beginnings of an alliance I hear?” he teased her.  
“Hmmm,” she mumbled, not willing to give over that much.  
(The change in things had started after the fire, and had grown apace, easing Johnny's mind a great deal.)

 

“And Daniel Barrow?” the young man asked, looking up at the sky.  
“He'll do,” Violet said shortly, eyes on her own section.  
“But you still feel she's wasting herself on him?”  
This time, he put down the binoculars completely to rummage in their bag of food.

“Not wasting herself, never. But not doing what was expected, certainly.”  
She took the half biscuit he handed her, fingers cold, breaths like little puffs of cloud in the night air.

“I wonder how long this war is going to last,” Violet said, her usual bland tone touched just at the edges by sadness.  
Girls served at twenty, but boys could be called at eighteen. Johnny was almost eighteen, and she'd not like to see him go.

 

“Churchill says we've still got a ways yet.”  
Johnny's eyes refused to meet hers then.  
He reached over and pulled a cloak from the pile near them, making to cover her up a little,  
noticing a shiver as she spoke.

Johnny shrugged.  
“But it will eventually end, and of that we may be certain.”  
She nodded, saying nothing, but worried behind her mask of absolute calm.


	67. Chapter 67

-  
-  
-  
They'd dug back in on the desert floor that night, hoping to get a few hours sleep without incoming fire.  
The rumble of artillery continued through the ground, vibrations that felt like ants crawling across his skin.  
Andy turned over and tried to find the dream he'd lost when a noise had startled him awake.

Beside him in the pit, a lighter flared briefly, followed by the coal red glow of a cigarette.  
“Get some sleep, will you?” Andy mumbled, looking over to the darker shadow that was the only other indication of Teddy's presence.  
“Can't sleep,” the other man answered back briefly. “When I sleep, I dream.”

 

Teddy's dreams weren't an escape like Andy's.  
The young man still dreamed of searing pain and injury, inescapable loss.  
Andy'd come back to the line a good month before Teddy, moving around by himself, not willing to partner up with anyone but his friend.  
A man needed a friend to survive. 

 

“Tell yourself a good story. Get it stuck in your head so much that it dribbles over to your dream,” Andy tried.  
That's what he told the twins when nightmares came.  
Fool your brain into thinking of the good of things. Remind yourself of something good that happened to tide you over through the bad.  
Andy had no trouble dreaming good things. It was just getting his mind to slow down and allow him to enter the dream world which was his problem.  
And now he was back awake.

 

The cigarette glowed brighter as Teddy took a drag.  
“Can't much think of good stories now. I keep dreaming of mud and flames. Unpleasant, that.”  
He used his hand to waft away the smoke, and the glowing tip moved back and forth almost hypnotically.

 

“Let me lend you a story, then,” Andy said, sighing as he budged over to let the other man share his covers. “Com'ere. Let me tell you about what a rumpus there was the night the twins were born.”  
And he made his voice light, as though he hadn't a care in the world.  
Telling it with a certain frantic enthusiasm. Mimicking Carson's deep tones and misgivings.  
(Carson's eyebrows their own character in the play.)  
Talking about the stuffed bears Thomas brought out to Yew Tree, too eager to wait for morning to deliver the plushes and see the new additions to the house.

 

Teddy unwound gradually, settling back  
like a child hearing a bedtime story instead of a man fully grown.  
“And this Thomas of yours is a good friend?” he'd asked for the dozenth time.  
“Very good. Part of my family, really,” Andy'd replied soothingly.

“If you come to Downton to visit...” he'd started before correcting himself. “WHEN you come to Downton to visit, you'll have to meet him.  
“Meet him and the twins and Daisy. Meet the Masons and Moseleys, Mrs. Hughes.  
“We'll have to make a party of it, we will.”

 

Teddy rolled to his side, stuffing a dirty jacket under his head for more of a pillow.  
“I'd like that. Whatever happens, if I don't get to visit, know that I'd've liked that.”

“Phht,” Andy said, denying his own worries.  
“We'll both make it back, and I'll expect to buy you a pint.”  
“Now go to sleep.”

 

It was inky black that night, no stars to stare at, think of Daisy staring at, mentally joining their hands.  
And it was difficult thinking of her anyway when he was awake.  
Thoughts of her threatened to push him over the edge into madness sometimes.

That month in the desert was a cruel one, rain lashing, mud viscous.  
(Not like the short gentle rains and mist his mind supplied in his memories of home.)

Andy shuddered, trying to follow his own advice and fill his mind with happy thoughts.  
But Teddy's nerves had transferred to Parker now.  
And he sat through the wee smalls, worrying over them both.

\---

The front of the action was actually in Kasserine, with Andy's men testing the guard at the rear.  
(It didn't make anyone any less dead if shot, but at least it kept the numbers down a bit for now.)  
Over at Kasserine, the Germans were opening up with 6-barrel launchers, plowing through a basin floor scattered with poppies and daisies.  
Now scattered with bodies and blood.  
(Andy thought when he'd heard of it how it would make him feel better, having a beautiful place to die.)

 

Rommel was still at the helm, but he was faltering.  
Sick himself, seeing the allies constantly resupplied in men and equipment, he was hesitating.  
Pulling back after wins on the west.

 

Trying an unexpected move east in their direction, which was handily anticipated with  
their new 17 pounders, dug in and camouflaged.  
(A barrage of armor piercing shells blew into the Afrika Corps. A cacophony of machine guns rattled.  
Leaving 52 Panzers destroyed, and dozens of their soldiers dead.)

Flying back to Germany to plead the case to Hitler himself,  
the Desert Fox was taken from command.

And with that, Hitler gave Montgomery the last piece he needed for a push.

\---

 

“It's not just to break into the emplacements at Mareth. It's to storm the wadi before hand,”  
Teddy told Andy wearily in weak morning light.  
They'd expected to move, yet it came as an increasing struggle each time,  
making oneself go willingly into the line of fire.

“I hate the word 'wadi.' Never want to hear it again when I go back to Downton.”  
Andy kicked a boot heal into the sand in front of him, squelching the soggy mud.  
“Lord Grantham waxing rhapsodic over the desert sands and the rugged terrain with these wadis.  
“Now that I know what they are, I might well tell his lordship to stick it up his jumper, I will.”  
Parker slumped. 

Even trying to be angry only got limited bursts of feeling now.

 

Wadi Zigzaou was twelve feet deep at spots according to intelligence, which made Andy suspect it might be twenty feet deep at spots, just their rotten luck.  
It was like an old English castle, it was.  
A moat of sorts before tackling the Mareth Line emplacements, all block structures with mines and barbed wire surrounds.  
“In't it about time they come on with a better plan than have us try a forward attack on all that?”

 

Teddy laughed bitterly.  
“Don't borrow that trouble. You'd like it less if you were on the other job. The Kiwis are getting that, through the hills on a double march out and around behind.”  
“With the same mud, only in the hills.”

“Bloody hell,” commented Andy, sighing and picking up his pack.  
“Show me the maps then, and let's see what we've got, so as I can pass it along to the rest  
before some General tries to Inspire them.  
“Getting a bit grumpy, they are.”

 

Teddy snorted.  
All of them were battle hardened and would do their duties without opposition.  
But they were also battle wearied.  
He hoped this final push toward Tunis would give them a break in the action finally.

If they made it past, Mareth, of course.

\---

A few nights later,  
under cover of artillery fire, the sappers started forward to clear a path for the infantry.  
The enemy hadn't expected them to move by the dark of the moon, but here they were  
so soon, doing just that.

And, of course, Monty'd put their division in the teeth of it, knowing they'd manage to face whatever the Axis brought to bear.

 

“Can't hear it,” Andy tried to yell. “Can't hear the pings.”  
They waved each other back and forth, trying to signal as they cleared the mines.  
But the first problem was simply one of loudness.  
The thunderous artillery barrage, symbol of allied might, made it hard to hear the mine detectors' pings.  
Without proper clearance, the mines would explode under their own men.

But it was a balance of speed and accuracy.  
And sometimes speed won.

 

The rains had made Wadi Zigzaou a moat of muddy water, and the engineers tried a trick called  
Fascines to help the tanks along.  
But bundles of brush weren't able to bear the weight, and after only four tanks, the fifth  
was buried up to its parapet in muck.

 

As to the men?  
Some had ladders. Some simply formed human pyramids.  
“We need the bridgehead,” Teddy shouted to the men. “Keep going until you scale the other side.”

And he ran at the front of them, inspiring them with actions rather than words,  
throwing grenades as they scaled the ravine.  
Behind him, Andy had hold of a machine gun and a box of ammunition. He'd continued on in spite of the enemy having him in their sights with both their guns and mortars.  
He tried, but the angle was wrong to try to take out the Axis above.

 

“Too much muck,” Andy shouted, shouted so close to Teddy's ear that he felt his own breath curl back warm.  
“The armoured aren't covering us. We've got to go back.”

 

The officer shook his head no and kept on fighting.  
They were lost in the action of it, all noise and fury. Lost in a place with no sense of time. Chucking everything they had just to hold on.  
Pointless without any possible chance of holding on.  
“Damn it, fall back,” Teddy shouted finally. 

Allowing the bridgehead to be given back.  
They'd live to fight another day.

 

Back across, they looked nothing like soldiers as much as mud men.  
Slogging toward where the communications were coming in for directions on what to try next.  
Men sat where they could, too numbed by it all too move. Too tired, but mainly too numb.  
They regrouped.

Finally the message came from command at two o'clock.  
“We will now all take a drink.”  
The signal to move.

They got enough of a bridgehead this time for the engineers to manage to get a path over.  
Unfortunately the first things they sent were the Valentine tanks, which left the passage so chewed up that no anti-tank guns could follow. And without protection, the Valentines fell.  
Once again, the sky was full of lead and fire.

 

“We need to withdraw again and try,” Andy suggested.  
He wanted to keep up the fight, but he also wanted to survive and get home to the children and Daisy.  
“Teddy,” he yelled, as the other man clung to the side of the wadi.  
There were only a few men now left clinging with them, frantically throwing grenades and making a sort of last stand.  
“Teddy,” he shouted more insistently, shaking his friend's shoulder.

 

“Withdraw,” Teddy yelled, face twisting in yet another disappointment.  
Andy turned and yelled it down the line.  
Some of them heard him, some couldn't.  
“Withdraw,” Teddy screamed and shoved him, moving him forward, turning to collect the ones behind.

And Andy went, herding his part of the rag tag crew, struggling.

 

Let the New Zealanders hit with the 'left hook' from the rear. Let the British Desert Air Force have the kill.  
“Withdraw,” Andy yelled to their small band as he went forward.  
Protecting them. Directing them.

Not knowing until he'd reached the other side that Teddy wasn't following him.  
His part of the group had been lost in that last ditch effort at the rear.


	68. Chapter 68

-  
-  
-  
Parker lost any sense of time after that. The long period of March to May was a blur.  
A long, drawn out blur week after chilling week.

He mechanically went about the attacks as directed.   
His division following the Axis as they withdrew under cover of a sandstorm.  
They were going north now, both wings of the allied forces uniting at last from east and west.

 

The advance scouts were the first to realize they were on the final route of the mission.  
As Sargent Brown of Devon happened upon Private Searcy from Kentucky in the middle of nowhere.

“This is certainly a pleasant surprise,” commented Brown with typical English understatement.  
“Well, it's good to see somebody besides a Nazi,” Searcy said in a twanging accent and a wide grin.

 

But Andy knew none of it, or rather he was part of all of it but Felt none of it.  
He followed where he was told and killed whom he was sent to kill.  
Weary but unflinching he went on North until they'd reached Tunis,  
hounding the enemy.

The mission was completed three days early, with 275,000 axis soldiers surrendering,  
sending up the white flag to become prisoners.  
And Parker didn't care if they killed each and every single one  
even after they'd dropped their guns.

\---

Meanwhile back home that spring,   
they'd had so few letters recently from Andy that it had Barrow worried.   
Thomas didn't expect the man to be chatty; chattiness left a man quite rapidly once the firing commenced.   
But the younger man had gone from volumes of descriptions to a rare few lines assuring them he was surviving.   
Even the censors allowed more than that.

 

The latest in his hand simply said they'd planted themselves firmly in Tunis as a launching pad for Sicily.  
That taking Sicily, much less Italy, would be the work of months.  
Andy was tired, he said. So, so tired.  
Thomas stood, thinking to take the note with him to the kitchen for Daisy, though he wasn't sure it would do any good.  
What were these few scrawled lines, after all?

 

“Mr. Barrow, come quickly.”  
Phyllis Moseley called him, coming for him, worried.   
Behind her the kitchen maids fluttered out into the hallway, frantic.  
There was a clatter and clang, then a crash as though of china shattering.

“What the hell?” Thomas said, starting to run then.

 

Looking in, Daisy unconscious on the floor.  
“She made a sound, then she leaned on the counter, then she just went down,” the assistant cook said, kneeling beside.   
(Well at least she had more sense than some to check.)

 

“I saw she was looking worried over a letter, so I came to fetch you,” Phyllis added.  
“I suppose I should have kept watch and sent someone else instead.  
“But they don't send bad news in letters, do they?”

 

Thomas scooped up Daisy. (Such a tiny thing she was, really, Barrow thought.)  
“Let's get her to the office and out of the kitchen heat. She's probably ill,” he said loudly enough for the younger ones.  
Then muttered, “Fetch the letter, will you Philly,” to the housekeeper.

Starting back to his office, he paused at the doorway.  
“You all. Back to work. Just salvage what you can and move on.”

Behind him, he heard a rising chatter.  
They'd make a go of it, or they wouldn't.  
Thomas needed to focus on Daisy now.

\---

Phyllis came in a few moments after, putting the letter on his desk and carrying a cool, wet rag to where Daisy lay.  
Usually so pink, the cook was a greenish sort of white now.  
Smudges under her eyes.  
Lips chapped from chewing them.

The butler chafed her wrists gently and wiped her face.  
“Do you think we ought to...” Phyllis tilted her head to the letter.  
It was private, she knew, but Daisy did normally share. 

 

“You mean you didn't?”  
Thomas raised an eyebrow, reaching for it with few qualms.  
He'd had a letter from Andy. It shouldn't be much different than this.  
And he recognized the handwriting easily. 

What would it be that Andy was alive to write, but had written something to cause Daisy to faint dead away?  
Barrow scanned the lines, one hand on the letter, the other absently stroking his friend's brow.  
“Thomas?” Daisy started to stir.

 

“Thomas?” Phyllis prompted him.  
Tears were forming at the sides of his eyes.  
He swallowed and wordlessly handed over the letter.

Smiling down at Daisy.  
“Thomas?” she struggled to rise to sitting, taking in a deep breath then.   
“Andy's coming home.”


	69. Chapter 69

(More like Chapter 68 1/4)  
-  
-  
-

 

Ordered to “grab his pack and haul arse,” Andy almost didn't have time for even a few scrawled lines,  
grabbed paper and tried to make his unsteady thoughts known in an even unsteadier hand.  
Addressed the envelope, but had no way to get it in the post, handing it off to a chum, who'd wished him God speed and God bless.  
Then he'd Run. Run for the lorry which was a ticket to freedom, no thought but to get himself in the assigned seat before it turned into a mirage.

 

26 May, 1943  
Daisy Girl,  
Coming home as driver to Advnce officers.  
(Fixing things, know how to act round the highr ups.)

Men stayng back untilplans set. Feel bad.  
Don't know dock date. Don't know how long.  
But promised leeve by man in charge.

Tell Twins. Tell Thomas. Thse letters in box wrong.  
Home not Sicly.

Running.  
All my love. Always.  
Andy

 

\---

He wasn't sure how he'd made it to the airfield. (They really shouldn't've trusted him to drive the officers when he was out of his mind like this, but Andy wasn't warning them.)  
Grabbing bag after bag of gear, running it back and forth while keeping an eye on the pilot.  
The plane wouldn't go up without him, and Andy was surely going to jump in the hatch when the pilot went in,  
officers or no.

And now they were strapped in the cavernous back of it, along with a motley assortment of other officers and soldiers.  
Andy asked nothing, didn't care why they were going, though he heard bits and pieces of it between the two men he'd driven.  
Words floating aimlessly here and there above his head. 

Dazed, he was. Words had no meaning, but it didn't matter anyway. 

 

I'm on the airplane, and it's going away from Tunis, Andy thought.  
That's all that mattered.  
Airplane. Away.  
The roaring of the engines filled him, vibration blanketed him, straps digging in his shoulders and across his lap.

“Ever been on a plane, Parker?” the officer asked.  
Which of Teddy's friends was this again? Andy knew the man's face well, but in his rattling mind the name was entirely lost.  
“Plane?” he said back, half stupidly before rousing himself. “No, sir. First time.”  
(Were they already in the air? How'd that happened?)

 

“Doing well, then. Good man,” the officer said back, nodding, before returning to his more official chat.  
Airplane. Away, thought Andy. Doing well, then.  
The roar filled his brain, and he struggled not to cry, struggled to stay with that calm, cool numbness which had seen him through so far.  
Airplane. Away. Daisy.

 

And the thought of her smiling face, of dancing with her in the kitchen at Yew Tree.  
Of the twins when they were babies, or climbing the trees as children.  
An entire range of pictures threatened to Break him, until he carefully walled them off.  
Later.  
For now, keep to Airplane. Away.  
Keep to following the officers. 

And eventually they'd lead him home.


	70. Chapter 70

-  
-  
-  
In the quiet of his tiny room, Andy tried to collect himself to stare down the barrel of a long, hard day.  
They'd kept him busy, these officers who'd nabbed him, even if They seemed mainly busy talking amongst themselves.  
(You should have telephoned them, he thought, shoulders slumping,  
You should have telephoned Daisy the very moment your feet hit the ground.)

But that day got away from him, murderously busy. Then the next. And the next.

He put his clean uniform on, sniffing the sleeve slightly.  
Could the absence of smell actually be a smell? No sweat. No dirt. Just clean.  
It took getting used to.

 

(Daisy won't be worried. She'll think I'm coming by Boat, so the  
letter wouldn't even get to her until sometime around now, he argued with himself.  
I can't go back half daft like this.  
Give it a week or so when I can actually talk to her face to face.)

 

The growls of loading transports and rising airplanes didn't phase him, but an automobile backfire in the streets of the city could still make him jump.  
(I've held on, though, he assured himself. Done it for King & country without ever missing a step. Never a tear since Teddy was....gone. Doesn't that prove I have some strength?)

 

Maybe he was strong enough to call NOW. (Forced himself to walk to the door.)  
But he hesitated. (Hand on the knob, not turning it.)  
Needing to get himself back used to being  
so close to home.  
(Afraid that her voice would crack him open in a way  
he wouldn't be able to fix.)

\---

“I've just had a case of the jitters, truly that's all. You can call off the guard dog now, thanks ever so.”  
Daisy pursed her lips and rolled her eyes to the door of the kitchen.  
A kitchen in which Beryl Patmore was perched on a stool, giving orders to them all.

It was like two years ago. Like when Andy first left and they thought she'd poison the lot upstairs on accident.  
“She's here a week or two at least,” Thomas said firmly. “If ever a woman needed supervision, it's you now, and I haven't the time to do a thorough job.”  
He reached out and took her hand, rubbing a thumb over her arm. Goose bumps. Still.

 

“It just took my mind a bit of time to match up to my body, it did. But I'm right now, really truly I am.”  
She smiled up at him, reassuringly.  
He'd been shook too by the turn of events.  
A happy sort of tumult was rippling through their worlds that for once left things as they ought.

 

“She stays, Daisy. And I've got to be upstairs already, but don't think you can overrule me when I'm out of the room.  
“She's my eyes down here, and Mrs. Hughes will be stopping by to check with Moseley at the school. And between us all, the Parkers are on close observation, until we have the final Parker back.”

 

Daisy eyes welled up then. Again.  
And he rubbed her arm, then her shoulder where the thin bones almost poked through the cloth of her dress.  
“We must be on with it, right?” Thomas said, looking her over to see if she'd hold.  
(Ships, he thought.  
The letter had traveled by ship, perhaps just a bit before the one which would carry Andy. He might walk through the door any day.)

 

“Right.” Daisy said firmly, using palms to clear the dampness from her cheeks.  
“Just a case of the jitters, truly,” she lied gamely.  
(Ecstatic but worried. What would it be like having not seen him for two years?)

“Right.” Thomas agreed, lying himself.  
But the lies would help them get through with it all.  
The butler rolled his neck to release the tightness there—'expectation' had its own sort of tension—and started for the stairs.

\---

Barrow stood behind the table, face impassive.  
Only Miss Sybbie, Branson, and Lady Mary were eating today, the elder Crawleys having taken Miss Violet and Master Edward to visit with family friends. 

Lady Grantham was already undoubtedly worried about to whom they'd marry Miss Violet off.  
Acerbic? Cynical?  
Barrow was wondering himself.

 

The butler took the tray around to serve the next course, mouth involuntarily curving up in answer to Sybil's brilliant smile.  
“I'm so happy for Daisy, I can hardly contain myself,” Sybil laughed.  
Then looked over at her aunt and laughed again.  
“It's just so good to have everything rosy for once.”

 

“Yes,” Lady Mary drawled, the corners of her mouth answering Sybil, too.  
The girl had been peckish after her Daniel left, had been quite blue and even lost weight with his absence.  
And Mary'd been worried, but thankfully things were jollier now.  
“We can't celebrate much in this awful time, but Andrew coming home safe is a gift too good to ignore, upstairs and down.”

 

Branson nodded.  
“They must be pulling some of them back for retraining then,” he added, thinking that it might mean a second front, though surely that was still a ways off.

“Mama says it might be time for the bivouac to finally land in our lawn; however, I'm of a mind we've escaped the worst of it.”  
Mary frowned. A disruption wouldn't be advisable now, she was sure of it.

 

“And Charles Blake will be back then?” Tom asked, trying to look nonchalant and failing.  
He was so used to having Mary at his side these days. It would be lonely again, it would.

Mary's frown grew more severe as she turned it on him.  
“No, Tom. He will definitely Not.”  
She couldn't exactly call what she'd done a mistake, but it wasn't something she'd countenance again.

“Hmmm...” was all Tom replied, trying to read Mary's mind, frowning slightly in return.

 

Sybil hummed softly under her breath, though, as she tucked into her food,  
and over her head Mary and Tom suddenly went from frowns to amusement.  
Their girl was happy, and that made the clouds outside seem to lift.  
All rosy, indeed.

\---

It had been a long day, but a successful one for Andy Parker.  
“I've got it all stowed, sir, and we've tomorrow's itinerary off the wire,”  
Parker reported smartly, holding himself completely in check, nothing amiss.

 

“We'll be in North Riding by Wednesday next. Not soon enough, though, what?”  
the officer said, missing his own family awfully.  
“And then we'll make a break for it. After we've sorted this mess down here.”  
Parker managed the perfect facsimile of an ironic smile. 

 

And shuffling through the papers, chomping on his cigar, his superior nodded briskly.  
“Good man.”  
They'd get the division home to train, adding experience to the units who'd only done duty in England all these years.  
Experience they'd need very soon.

Parker was a marvel, keeping things fixed, doing the driving, acting as de facto secretary.  
Teddy'd been right to include him. (Poor Teddy, the officer thought, must see his family.)  
“You're dismissed tonight, Andrew. It's so late, it'll be early by and by.”

\---

And at that same very late hour in the servant's hall,  
Joe sat with his feet propped, half dozing.  
He'd come earlier to offer Daisy the use of his cottage, if she wanted, when Andy first got home.  
Miller knew no one was thinking anything of it, thinking Andy could just be swarmed and swallowed by friends and family right out.  
(And maybe he could, thought Joe. I couldn't, but maybe he'll be different.)

 

Thomas had been in a funny mood of it, too excited to sit still.  
So Miller had taken his time, then, and sat there to check on him,  
knowing the problem of it would come out.  
No need to rush things, since trying to rush Thomas never ended well.  
Joe just needed to wait and 'observe.'

 

“Sybbie still hasn't told me, of course,” Barrow muttered finally from where he was reading.  
The light picked up the glints in his hair as he looked over the opened book to Joe.  
Both men looked side to side, checking to make sure Anna & John hadn't finished and come down.

“As long as she's told Danny,” Joe smiled at him.  
(Ah, that was it, then.  
Before the letter from Andy, this had been the two men's main topic of speculation.)

 

“She told Danny, who told Daisy, who told me.  
“And she had Phyllis let out the waist of her skirts, which told me.  
“And the fact that I've been keeping an eye out for it in advance told me.  
“But she's never actually said the words of it, and I'm getting rather put out.”

Joe gave a rumbling chuckle at the tone of the statement. How he loved this man.  
“Don't like people keeping secrets from you?” Miller teased.  
“She's not people. She's Sybbie,” Thomas almost hissed.

 

“And has she told Tom and Lady Mary she's 'expecting?'”  
(Thomas frowned at the question and looked around yet again to check that they were—still--alone.)

“No, but the two of them are watching her, just like I am. We're circling like hawks over a rabbit, and still she's just puttering on, like the news won't out.”  
Barrow's voice was positively aggrieved.  
Miller started to laugh harder.  
“Maybe she just assumes everyone knows it already, knowing her secrets never hold," he managed finally.  
"Or maybe she just didn't want to say anything when Daisy was so unhappy, and now she doesn't want to steal Andy's thunder.”

 

Barrow nodded.  
Both parts of that were perfectly valid, yet....  
“She still should Tell Me. I'm fine at keeping secrets.”

(Joe's laughter escaped him again.  
Except when it came between the two of them, the keeper thought.)  
“Just let our little bird nest, and be happy. They'll be a baby to rock soon enough.”

 

Barrow snorted, and waved a hand dismissively at Miller before going back to the novel.  
As though, he, Thomas, was the Nanny.  
But he did like babies.  
True enough.


	71. Chapter 71

-  
-  
-  
It took two more weeks before he managed it.

June in Yorkshire was so green that it made his eyes ache.  
The leaves rustled in a slight breeze, droplets still on their tips from a recent mist.  
Andy Parker sat there on the verge, studying it all,  
twitching a last few hasty nervous puffs of cigarette before he moved.

He couldn't see the big house from here, but he knew it was just beyond those trees.  
Those very green trees that whispered and made his eyes ache.  
(The whispering silver silence somehow made his ears ache, too.)

 

Andy started the motor again and forced himself on, made nervous by the colors and smells of the country.  
It was a far greater difference here than at the bases he'd been.  
(It felt very open and vulnerable. He felt very alone.)

Enough of that rubbish, he thought.  
(Rubbish. Rubbish at cards, Teddy. Rubbish at cards, Thomas. Maybe they could have a game of it down at the cottage some time.  
His thoughts STILL faintly mocked and skittered before he caught them and boxed them back.  
At least he was getting quicker at boxing them back.)

\---

Parker drove up to the rear of Downton, having deposited the higher ups earlier and still having access to the automobile.  
Stepping out, uniform straight, hair short and slightly greyed, skin brown as a nut,  
He squinted and stood turning his hat in his hand, before finally putting it on. 

“Get a move on, soldier,” he muttered, needing to hear the sound. (No one else to give him direction; he'd do it for himself.)  
A hall boy stepped out then into the sunlight, and, seeing him, startled so strongly that he almost made Andy jump back in reply.

 

“Mr. Barrow!!” the boy shouted, heedless of protocol.  
And a scramble was on, as the boy raced in, ducking his head in rooms as he went, announcing the arrival.  
He'd never met the man, this new hall boy and this old footman, but the boy knew to be on high alert.

A great roiling mass of humanity came out the side door within seconds,  
pushing along Daisy in front, with her crying and reaching for him. 

 

“Inside, everyone. Give the man room to breathe,” Barrow, at the rear, issued the order in the voice of authority.  
Taking one good look himself, before forcing them all back.  
(He'd make a good officer. He's like the officer of the big house, Andy thought randomly, before his mind seized up on him once again, and he could think of nothing but the feel of his wife in his arms.)

Couldn't think, could barely breathe.

Back the mass of friendly faces went, smiling and waving until he was  
Alone with her at last.

Alone at Downton with his Daisy.

 

Not the most romantic of reunions, though, a part of Andy's mind taunted, as he grabbed her and started to cry in return.  
Great, gulping sobs.  
Unmanned with grief and joy.  
(Keeping them boxed back finally impossible, he gave in.)

Still, he was finally  
Home.

And at once how oddly familiar and yet totally unfamiliar the place felt.

 

But then, home was actually wherever Daisy was, so the feel of her body next to him  
woke in him FINALLY a sense of reality.  
She was warm and smelled faintly of vanilla and tea.  
(He hadn't truly been home at all, until now, he thought.)

\---

“Oh, Andy. Oh, Andy,” she couldn't say more for sobbing his name against his chest.  
But the sound of his name in her voice sounded so...perfectly right.

“I'll have to leave and not come back if I'm making you so sad to see me,” he tried a light tone of it, in spite of cheeks still wet.  
It was a joking tone he'd not practiced for Quite Some Time. 

 

“Oh, my love,” she cried, squeezing him tightly in strong arms, as though she'd never again let him go.  
Andy buried his face in her hair, cap slid off, chestnut waves gleaming and scented with shampoo.  
It was a sharp pain through his heart.

And he fell to his knees then, as though to hide in the very center of her warmth,  
And she bent to wrap him like he was a child himself.  
Until  
Slowly, at the very edge of his brain, he felt the tiniest bit of Absolute Peace come to him  
as he clung to her.

\---

Inside, Thomas stood actually leaning with his back to the door, as though blocking it from the rest.  
“We've caught a glimpse, and now we'll give them a moment, please.”  
The tone was of dismissal.  
(He might not have Carson's eyebrows, but he could still manage a look of irritated command.)

 

Andy'd been smartly dressed and clean, Barrow thought.  
No frantic drive fresh off the ship from Liverpool, then.  
And yet they'd had no notice.  
Perhaps his work for the officers had made enough delay to help him cope.  
But something about the look of the thing and the timing was off.

 

“Will they be fine enough?” Phyllis said softly next to him, interrupting his thoughts.  
“Have to be,” Thomas said reasonably. “It's not like anyone can chose how hard life kicks you back.”  
Neither the two of them had easy times of it in early years, nor Daisy either.  
And the war sat heavy on them all.

The rest of the staff had scattered back to their duties, chattering magpies.  
Phyllis and Thomas stood in the shade of the hallway, alone.

 

“Mr. Miller told Daisy she could use his cottage if they wanted, to have some privacy while Andy settled.  
“I doubt we'll see our cook return tonight.”  
Phyllis smiled at Thomas's formal tone.  
(Mr. Miller, indeed. )  
“Nice of him,” she commented mildly. “Though the children will be most keen to see him. And Mr. Mason.”

 

“Mrs. Patmore will give him word of the sighting.”  
And with a sigh at the thought of that worthy woman, Barrow walked onward toward the kitchen.  
He rubbed the scar on his left hand absently, not recognizing any memories of war in the act.

Intent on keeping the household running.

It wasn't only Daisy who'd like freedom from the fierce variety of love Patmore preached, after all.  
She'd be in there beating the maids about the ears in her excitement, he thought.  
Ordering them about in a fit of glory.

 

A screech. A bang. A bellow echoed down the hallway made Thomas speed his step.  
They had a luncheon to finish, they did.  
Andy was safe, but the pleasure of his company would have to wait  
at least a few more hours.  
No holding back the hands of time.


	72. Chapter 72

-  
-  
-

They'd have months of him, hopefully. And they held onto that promise as his presence back finally became more real.

Andy'd heard that the plan of it was to recall the entire division to England sometime in the autumn.  
The officers were advance men of a sort.  
So he'd have his two weeks leave fully, then report to York, able to come home every week for a day.  
(He'd almost whispered it, afraid to tempt the Fates.)

No one was sure where the rest of his division would land for training.  
They weren't talking about the mission details, but it was something big, wasn't it?  
If Monty was sending his best men home?

 

“I'm so glad of it,” Sybbie said softly, sitting with Barrow in his office a few days later, discussing things.  
She usually met the butler in the kitchen, usually stood behind Daisy pouring over their books and maps now.  
But, of course, she'd needed to speak to him quietly, not knowing how he would take such news disclosed. 

“I'm expecting some wonderful news in a few months, too,” she'd started  
having finally decided to speak.  
An hour ago, her own father had gone so red at that point that she'd feared for his heart and  
had called frantically for her Aunt Mary, who'd come laughing in to join from the hallway  
(Where she'd stood in wait, keeping an eye out.)

 

Barrow, though, merely raised an eyebrow.  
“Wonderful news?”  
He waited, face gone impassive, not giving her an inch.  
And she understood then.  
“I had to tell daddy first,” she'd laughed. “Well, Daniel, then daddy.”  
“You old poke.”

 

Sybil came out of her chair and threw her arms around Barrow.  
“Unfair, really, that Ann stole the name of Thomas,” she'd teased him.  
“You and daddy both in one fell swoop.”

 

And she'd plopped down ungracefully beside him.  
“You won't pester me, dancing around, though, will you? You'll still be My Barrow, and keep things like always?”  
Thomas frowned at her slightly, though forgiving any thought of pique for the delay in telling.  
“That's why you waited?”

“Didn't want you or daddy worried. I've heard about mummy for years and years. Didn't want her ghost haunting you both.”  
Sybbie sighed and rubbed her forehead against his shoulder now, a small child again.  
“But eventually I had to tell.  
“I would have gone on until the day of it, truly. But I just couldn't keep it in.  
Ruefully then mumbling, "I'm not very good at secrets."

 

The butler hummed slightly, reaching to smooth her hair.  
A baby having babies.  
The years had moved on too fast.  
“Not like you could keep a secret from ME anyway, young miss,” he scolded gently, tutting.  
“We'll set up the nursery, and you'll stay here safe until Danny comes home.”

 

She sighed her agreement, still hiding her face in his solid presence.  
“And it will all go well. Don't you worry.” (Of course, HE'd worry, but he knew to keep it from the child.)

The silence wrapped safely around them, a beam of sunlight casting a rainbow over the two,  
the busy clocks ticking away.  
“But one thing,” he interrupted firmly, taking her first by the shoulders then tipping up her face by fingertips placed under her chin.

 

“I will not,” he said looking her squarely in her startled eyes.  
“I will NOT,” he repeated.  
“deliver this baby.”

And she started crying slightly and giggling more.  
Ann and the baby.  
Oh, the hysteria.  
Her giggling won the fight, and she stayed there a few moments buried in mirth.

 

“Oh, Barrow, I know it's not proper to say, but you do know how much I love you, don't you?”  
And she hugged him most thoroughly then,  
having enjoyed the look of contentment on his dear face.

\---

Andy, too, was wrapped in the arms of his daughter...and his son, too, though Davey tried to be more discreet.  
Moseley had told the twins there was 'more to life than British history' and given them the week off.  
(What that must have cost the teacher to say, Andy had no idea.)  
And the two of them had followed him like nervous puppies from dawn to dusk now. 

 

How glad Andy'd been that he and Daisy'd had a couple of days of it alone at the start.  
They only had hours in the dark now. (What a blessing, though, those hours with his wife.  
What a blessing these hours with his children.)

“You'll trip me up, there, Dolly,” he'd carefully warned as he tried to move around in lockstep with the child.  
They'd done this when the twins were knee high, but a grown girl wrapped around him was more of a challenge than that.  
Andy found he didn't much mind, though, and fiddled with her braid, turning it into a moustache to make her smile.  
(Just like before. Just like always. Controllable, predictable.)

 

“I'll trip you up and hold you down,” she agreed, throwing her braids over her shoulders.  
“And Davey'll help me. And you'll not leave the house again.”  
They were in the barn helping, but not much truly.  
The Land Girls laughed and gave way, having also given way by moving to the bunkhouse.  
But what a miracle, really, to see a man home from North Africa.  
Their own men were there, and it was like Andy represented a chance at their very own answered prayers.

 

“Wait'll you see the new piglets, and we patched the old shed. I helped on the roof,” Davey rambled, patting his father, scattering a few steps and turning in excitement, coming back to touch again before moving on.

“You didn't see where we fixed up the school,” Dolly said suddenly, realizing. “Now THAT was a tidy job.”  
But Andy'd jerked then at the thought of bombs near his children. 

“No, da, it was night time,” Dolly said, tightening her grip. “No one got hurt.” (Well, people got hurt at Longfield, and more people got hurt in York, but she wasn't compounding her  
mistake, now was she.)  
“It was just a rattle and thump, but we helped put the tiles back for the roof,” she said reassuringly.

 

“I helped,” Davey added, frowning at his twin behind their father's back.  
“See what great muscles I've got now.”  
And he went back in front of his father and capered a bit, showing off, pulling a face, then ducking back to touch him yet again.

 

Andy's breathing slowed, and  
he let the conversation run past him like a brook babbling.  
Musical, the sounds of his children's voices.  
Sometimes he caught the topic, sometimes not, but it was pleasant to hear the sound.  
Gently lapping at the edges of his mind, wearing away the rough edges somewhat.

 

“Come see the garden Granny's got going,” Dolly urged then, directing him along their course.  
“It's huge. And you should see our store of provisions put by.”  
(They'd call it a root cellar not a bomb shelter, for truly that was what it would have been called any other time.)  
“And I've taken to raising bees....”

There were descriptions then, of the dangers of starting hives, but it ran past him gently, reassuringly.  
Leaving Andy able to softly smile.

\---

Mary went into the library to find her father and share Sybbie's news.  
She knew the girl would do it on her own, but thought it might go more smoothly if the old earl had some warning ahead of time.  
Of course, he'd be delighted, but he also sometimes could be a bit off-putting in his first reaction to things, until his heart caught up and informed him what should and shouldn't be said.

In the library, though, it was both her father and son whom she found.  
Edward, bent over a crumbly old book, and her father  
Incandescent. 

 

“He can read this,” Robert said in excitement. 

Mary stopped, looking over, and Edward put both palms up, as surprised by the old man's delight as she.  
“Papa,” Mary started slowly. “The children have been reading a great while now....”  
She faltered. Had he finally lost his wits?

“Really, my darling, don't be obtuse. He can read this and it's in Greek.”  
Edward giggled lightly.  
Just a short burst before he clamped down. 

 

“I heard you on the telephone, mama, talking to papa about school  
“And I thought if I could show Donk how well I could read in his library, maybe he'd not side with making me go.”  
He stood and came to her then, taking her arm in his hands,  
clutching somewhat at her sleeve.

(Good lord, look how tall the child is, she thought.)  
“I don't want to go, and you don't want me to go. I heard you.”  
He paused.  
“Thank you, mama.”

 

Mary patted his hand slightly--no, she wasn't going to let Henry have ANY say in that.  
“You're not going anywhere, Edward. Not for a few more years when it's time for university,” she said firmly.  
“Now, release me before you make me untidy.”  
But he didn't move his hands, and she found herself smoothing his hair back from his face.  
Such serious round eyes.

 

“It's in Greek,” Robert asserted again, breaking her thoughts.  
“And this one's in Latin. And he's been using those old excavation notes to try to learn Hieratic.  
(Her father looked as though he might burst into song.)

“All dry as a bone, I'm sure,” Mary drawled.  
“But he's thirteen.” Robert seemed a bit stunned by the fact. 

 

Mary looked down at her son, questioning him with a raised eyebrow.  
“Georgie's old tutor was always drilling him in front of us when we were tiny.  
We just picked up the Latin and Greek and kept going. Clarey dared me on the other, since it IS a bit hard.....like a secret code.”

He grinned up at her, confiding the 'dare.' (She'd help him fight his corner, his mother would, which made him no longer afraid....at least today.)  
“And that one IS dry as dirt, but there are some good ones hidden in the locked box up....”

And he drifted off, flushing red.  
He and Clarey probably weren't supposed to be reading those.

 

“How many of Donk's books have you read, darling?” Mary drawled, noticing her father going purple in the corner.  
(What sort of things did he have hidden on the higher shelves? She might take up reading for pleasure, after all.)

 

“Not all of them. That's what I was explaining. If I stay here and read the rest of them with Donk setting lessons, won't that make up for not going to Eton?  
If I read an hour or so a day beyond what Tutor gives us?  
“Mr. Samuelson needs me here, you know. And I'd miss everyone....”  
But he wasn't afraid now. Not when his mother was smiling at him in wry amusement.  
No, he didn't have to be afraid.

Meanwhile Mary kept her expression calm and careful, while inside she was thinking that--  
for her father at least--Sybbie's news of a baby would fall flat to second place.


	73. Chapter 73

-  
-  
-  
Sybil Barrow pregnant was unlike any pregnant woman in Thomas Barrow's experience.  
The butler shook his head and smirked as he kept watch on her through the days.

 

Daisy got touchy and snappish, thinking pregnancy a completely dirty trick played on her by the fates.  
Then she'd taken to motherhood with a firm and steady hand.

Anna had looked like a Madonna for the whole of it, seeming to ignore the process mainly,  
then went on about business afterward without a missed step.

Lady Mary had been a series of explosions followed by a low spell that had them all worried, until it had repeated itself the third time and they held onto the realization she'd rally.  
It was just her way.

And then there was Lady Sybil, but Thomas tried not to think on that.  
Though how could he not when her daughter was almost the woman's mirror image?

 

However, Miss Sybbie not only had her mother's glow about her.  
Sybbie hummed.  
She capered. She laughed (sometimes apparently at nothing, like some mad young thing.)  
Sybil Barrow pregnant was given to extemporaneous fits of dance in the great hall with her cousin Edward, much to the delight of Clarey Bates who cut in on them, having completely forgotten his place.

They didn't realize in the dark of midnight in her window seat that  
sometimes she sobbed, too.  
Overcome with a longing she didn't know how to describe,  
except by labeling it with 'Daniel.'

 

But the others only saw her young and vital self, sorted out and facing the day with joy.  
The humid July heat didn't seem to phase her a whit.  
(“I don't know if we can keep up with her,” her father said to Barrow once when they'd crossed paths in the gallery above. They'd shared a weary smirk of masculine solidarity then, before gamely moving on.)

 

“My feet were so swollen I could barely walk,” Daisy said a bit jealously as Sybil went up the stairs light footed and rubbing her tiny swell of a belly.  
“But you were beautiful,” Andy said to her, bumping her with his hip as he stood in the kitchen.  
There were treats to be nicked in the big house kitchen, there were.  
He had the military version of a day off, and he meant to spend as much of it as he could breathing Daisy in.....and nicking sweets. All in the safe bustle of the big house kitchen.

 

“Go on with you, then,” Daisy giggled, dimples showing, blushing even.  
She'd been disastrous looking when carrying the twins, and well she knew it.  
But he had called her beautiful, and she'd loved him for it.  
(She loved him even more now.)

 

“You two again, kissing over the food. Unsanitary,” Thomas said, though the smile he didn't (couldn't) hide ruined the scold.  
The butler was trying to enjoy every moment, trying to believe God had somehow granted them a lasting reprieve from disaster.  
But he still had a corner of his mind which overthought things, which kept telling Barrow that this was just the quiet before a storm of disasters yet to come.

 

“Can't help it. She's sweet as the food is,” Andy said, grinning at him, a soft, easy grin that could disappear still in an instant—but for this space of time was comfortable enough.

 

“What's happening, then,” Anna asked as she entered.  
“What's going on?”

“Billing and cooing, mainly,” Thomas said sourly.  
Anna laughed.

“I passed Miss Sybbie on the stairs, if you'd rather switch from romance to comedy.  
She's going out to try again to teach those two pups of hers how to obey commands.”

 

Barrow groaned under his breath.  
Sybbie was intent on having her two litter picks trained for Longfield before the end of the war.  
She and Lady Mary talked sheep now, the way Lady Mary'd once talked pigs—a religion it was, selecting the breed of stock for a tenancy.  
“As long as they don't trip her,” he said, finally.  
“Or jump up against her  
And hurt the...baby.”

 

Anna patted his arm gently. “We're tougher than we look, Mr. Barrow.”  
Daisy nodded.  
“Especially that girl. Why her feet aren't even swelling, Anna. Have you noticed that?”

Barrow left then, fearing the conversation might go to areas he'd rather not hear.

\---

They'd a game of cards planned that night.  
Andy had his pass, and Jimmy'd managed a day off.  
Though the Downton workers had full days of it already, they knew to adjust themselves to this rare treat of time.

“They said they'll have us come back and train in Norfolk or Suffolk, prolly, though things are always on delay,” Andy reported.  
“Let them delay,” answered Jimmy. “Delays mean we have you up north to fleece.”  
The soldier just rolled his eyes.

 

“There's something going on between our upper command and the Americans, some sort of politics way up at the tippity top, but I'm not even beginning to understand it, what little enough I hear,” Andy added.  
“Wish Thomas were around, he'd have it sussed out in a week.”  
Jimmy grinned and shuffled, dealing the cards.

It felt better with Andy back, though they knew it wasn't forever.  
But it was something for now, no empty chair for the rest of them to face.  
“Come round to the cinema when you can, and I'll get you in,” Kent suggested.  
If the man had just a spare hour or two, he'd somehow fill it with food or song.

 

Parker, on his part, was amazingly grateful to Jimmy Kent,  
having Daisy tell him Jimmy'd been scanning every reel to find the bits and pieces which would bring her some sense of calm.  
In Andy's mind now, Jimmy'd been raised to Legend status, he was,  
certainly more than just simple chum.

(Still Parker wasn't yet up to watching newsreels of the actual battles.  
Perhaps meet him for a pasty at the pub.  
Jimmy, having not gone over, didn't understand that Andy still needed that last bit of distance from things still.)

 

Sam sat, grumbling and muttering to his cards.  
“Three,” he said in disgust to Kent. “Three good ones this time, if you can manage it.”  
Which caused Miller to huff in amusement while he waited his turn.

“What's from the children, then?” Joe prompted Thomas.  
Joe knew most of it, of course, but it didn't hurt to hear again.  
“George is saying they'll be packing up at the turn of the year, though that's still months away.”

 

“And how do you move a hospital?” Jimmy asked, frowning.  
“Slowly,” Andy replied, grinning an easy grin.  
But he frowned then, quick as that.  
“Master George is good at his business, you know. And he tried to teach me some tricks at cards, so you'd all best watch out.”  
His tone of bluster was quite out of character and it struck them as amusing.

 

Sam took a gulp of his drink to hide his disbelief. (Didn't want to push the boy down, now that he was here.)  
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Since I taught him the tricks he taught you, I think I'm safe here....Andrew.”  
At the everyday jibing tone, Andy's smile returned.  
It was quiet here. He had friends here.  
And other than in Daisy's arms, this was the safest he'd ever feel again.

 

“One,” Parker said, raising an eyebrow in his best Georgie-inspired, Barrow imitation.  
“Two,” Barrow smirked back at him, keeping his expression neutral, but wanting to laugh at his friend's attempt.

“I don't wish anyone ill luck, but Anna and I are hoping that whatever it is they're planning gets done with the worst of it before January,” Bates signaled for two cards, breaking into the stare down.

 

He didn't have to remind them his eldest would be of conscription age then.  
“They've been saying they won't send the younger soldiers over until they're twenty,” Joe suggested.  
No one had to add to this group, however, that it all depended on numbers and losses that few could predict.  
“From your lips to God's ears,” Bates toasted, clinking his teacup to Joe's drink.  
“Daniel?” Bates asked then.

 

“Not sure,” Thomas admitted. “He's written that they're training, but not much else, and all I know is Sybil's going to sneak off and hop on a train like Clarey if we let her out of sight.”  
John Bates gave the lowest hint of a chuckle.  
Pregnant women might be slower moving, but they did NOT like to be ordered about.  
“Maybe we could let Clarey act as her chaperone. The blind leading the blind.”

 

“Are you two going to bet or not?” Jimmy prompted, fiddling with his cards and looking smug, thinking himself about to win.

And the bets piled up in the center as Joe topped off the drinks.  
The bets piled up again.  
And finally, after a bit more play,  
It was Andy who managed to take the pot. 

 

Whether the others somehow let him or he'd earned it, Jimmy wasn't sure.  
But Parker looked so pleased with the turn of events, the blond found that he didn't care  
No, not at all.  
It was a wonderful night, eating and drinking and playing cards  
with friends.


	74. Chapter 74

-  
-  
-  
Entertainments weren't dead what with wartime.  
No, they actually increased in some quarters, especially those that had to do with raising money for the war.  
The most recent--Wings for Victory--opened in London, then spread across the countryside as spring turned into summer.  
This gambit asked for investments which would be used to fund equipment and bombs for the RAF.

 

“We've asked the children to build model airplanes for a competition. And we can set up a large display to keep track of moneys saved, organize a parade of veterans and soldiers.  
"It will be quite grand,” Sybil exclaimed to Mrs. Lang as they sat in the WVS office. 

The old woman looked at her askance.  
“Will Downton really have enough in their pockets to make such a thing profitable?”

It certainly hadn't been so prosperous in her day.  
“We could have a fancy dress parade. You know the older men won't be able to refuse to participate if their daughters and wives do.”  
Sybil smiled at her, almost laughing.  
“Have it on market day so everyone's already planning to come to town?”

 

“Do tell me what you think of it, Mrs. Lang. What I can do to make it better?”  
Sybil felt she had things well in hand, but the old woman seemed to let down her guard a bit when she added deference to the mix.  
A bit of sugar, and the old thing fell in line.

 

“It won't be much of a show unless you can manage to have something here, like lorries or a tank. The cities have bombs even, perhaps a spitfire. What could Downton do to compete with that? Why would it matter?”  
O'Brien sat back and drew her brows together, determined to frown.  
But when the young girl sat back, too, seeming to frown and think, mirroring her own look and tilting her head, Sarah felt herself somewhat give. 

She did like ordering around Sybbie Branson, but she also found the girl reminded her somewhat of her grandmother, back when Sarah first came into her employ.  
Those innocent looking blue eyes, backed by a surprisingly agile mind.  
O'Brien shook her head slowly, wishing she could rewind time.

 

“Would your grandfather perhaps know someone who could speak to the crowd? And a call to the other WVS centers to ask how they got a bomb on which to stick the savings 'stamps'?”  
“I could look into the second if you arranged the first.”

Sybil smiled at her, and thanked her, genuinely grateful.  
It had been her very worst problem, trying to think of how to gather enough troops and (actual!) bombs for their parade, having read the news accounts of the surrounding events this spring.  
Mrs. Lang offering was a real joy to the girl, and she pattered about in spite of her now six month belly, calling out for tea, settling them both in the corner.  
Smiling, always smiling, blue eyes and dimples.

 

And by the end of the hour, the old woman somehow felt as though the day had gone bright in spite of rain.  
She didn't even mind when, as she went out onto the sidewalk, she passed Thomas Barrow. 

“Good morning, Miss O'Brien,” he said, tipping his hat and smirking from under his umbrella.  
“Thomas,” she said nodding back, surprising him with a lack of bite in her tone.

\---

 

“I said I'd help you with the drive, didn't I?” Marigold said, surprised.  
She'd flown a delivery to a nearby airfield, switching duties with a friend so she'd be in the area on the date.  
It was only when she'd entered the door of Brancaster that Marigold Pelham realized she hadn't been home since February, and here it was July. 

“I've written and told you twice,” she said with just the smallest twinge of guilt, seeing the love shining from her father's eyes.  
Her father, Bertie.  
Somewhere, some time, Marigold had finally worked her mind around that as Absolute Fact.  
“Papa,” she squeezed his hand and didn't want to let it go.

 

“Mama,” she smiled even at Edith.  
“I told you I'd come, and here I am, ready to help with the festivities, or at least to march in the parade.”  
And she waved her hand to her uniform, allowing herself some small amusement when her  
mother reflexively rolled her eyes.  
“You should be in the fancy dress parade, not the military,” Edith smiled, “but you'll win the competition in either one.”

 

“Our beautiful girl,” Bertie insisted. “So glad you've been able to come back to visit.”

“Come back home for a visit,” Marigold answered, underscoring the word 'home.'  
She needed to underscore a lot of realizations she'd come to, allow a good number of bridges to be mended (for her parents had wanted them mended from the start.)  
“And, oh, I know it's a horrible thing, this war, but I am enjoying the work. I understand what you've always said about having an occupation, mama.”  
Marigold smiled.  
“I understand quite a few things better now.”

\---

“We don't have a proper band, you know, and Barrow said you were friends with some of the men in York's.”  
Sybbie sat in the nursery with Jimmy and Ann, young Thomas bouncing between them, quite steady on his feet now, of course. Just not sure whose lap he preferred in the moment, since no one seemed to be exclusively focused on him.  
(Usually anyone who came in the nursery came to focus on him, after all.)

 

“I know some of them, true enough,” Jimmy said.  
He didn't remind Sybil that these were mainly old men, or of the difficulties of transport even over short distances.  
She was Barrow's niece now, after all. She was a damsel in distress. She was glowing with Motherhood.  
As someone steeped in the cinematic tradition of heroes, Jimmy found himself helpless to say anything more than 'yes.'

 

They'd have their band, and he'd make sure it was glorious.  
Ann and Sybil clapped and complimented, made him quite the center of attention.  
Well, Jimmy and Thomas, once the little lad put up more of a fuss.

And eventually, the boys rolled around on the floor, roughhousing.  
While the women sat rocking and planning a bit on the festival.  
Both very peacefully sure that  
It promised to be a lovely event.

\---

“Do you think you should go to the parade, truly?”  
Daisy twisted the end of her apron with one hand, holding the telephone in the other.  
“Couldn't you ask for a change?”

“A change to a day I don't want?” Andy asked, confused.  
Davey had been on about his model in the competition. Andy had helped him build the fiddly thing, helped just a bit, but felt a part of it, none the less.  
On his end in the hall of the base, he frowned at the receiver.

“I don't want you around bombs,” Daisy said, finally. Her voice hesitant over the line.  
At this, Parker huffed out what once would have been a laugh.

 

“Daisy, girl, I'm around bombs almost every day. Sometimes airplanes, too. And trucks.  
Sometimes maps and papers for where those bombs and trucks and airplanes are going.  
“You can't keep me away from the war, not when it's here as well as there.”  
He leaned against the wall near the telephone, hunching his shoulders around as though to stand closer to her somehow through the wires.

 

“I'm not saying I'm perfectly right, you know that,” he muttered, rubbing a bit at his temples, starting to get a headache. (He hated to admit to any of Daisy's worries. He wanted to protect her from all of that.)  
“But they aren't setting OFF any bombs, and I can manage a parade with troops and a brass band,  
so I'm going to see the children's work.”  
(As long as there were none of those mournful bagpipes like the Highlanders played, echoing across the desert.)

 

He could hear her breathing over the line, a moment just of breathing and static.  
“That's good then,” she said finally. Firmly.  
“That's truly a good thing then, right?”

“Right,” he said.  
“You can get me a penny lick, and let me show off my wife to all the jealous types parading.”

Her faint laugh then made him smile.  
“You can get me the penny lick, Mr. Parker, and a bottle of pop, too, thank you ever so.”  
He leaned against the wall, finding a lifeline just in the sound of her voice.

 

He couldn't wave the war away for her. Not yet.  
All he could do was make her happy a bit of the time.  
And doing that gave him a bit more Hope, too.


	75. Chapter 75

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27 July, 1943

Dear Barrow,

Hopefully this finds you well and comfortable, enjoying the country summer in whatever moments you have the chance.

It was good to hear that Sybbie's parade went off, and that things are going smoothly.  
So odd to think of her married and having a baby.  
However the thought of her putting pairs of nylons into the auction to raise money  
makes me a little less alarmed, a little more amused. More like the girl I know.  
(How I would have paid to see Donk's face!)

 

As to me, I am quite safe, so everyone truly needn't ask.  
It continues to nag at me, being “protected” back here behind the lines.  
Doing my part, true, but not like you did up front.  
You say that's a good thing and are relieved by it, but it does point out the  
inequalities in the whole game.  
It's made me introspective, and you know I don't like to be that! (I need to round up a cricket match double quick, though there's not a decent pitch in the town.)

 

That's the key word these days, though, 'inequalities,' and how we'll get on after the war is over.  
It's reached us here, That Beveridge Report which will undoubtedly change the way the Downton Hospital does business.  
Granny must be studying it nightly, and arguing with her board.  
And since that's a part of the show which will undoubtedly come to me, I've tried to study it, too.  
But like the PM, I'm not good at 'peering through the mists of the future.'

I do sit here thinking, though: Inequalities.  
Life after the war. How to pull my share of the weight.  
How I wish I could come downstairs and sit for a while to talk, and make sure my thoughts are steering the right path.

 

However, it's too soon to really think on after the war, when I know we've Europe to get through.  
Since I don't know who's moving where, the censor shouldn't mind if I guess.  
He will, though, so I'll spare you that giant ink blot which my letter would become.  
All I know is that we are 'going.' Going where? I'm not sure.  
Still, all the war is 'going,' going until we're done.

 

I'm glad Andrew managed to get back a bit early.  
Tell him I haven't had any of his men at hospital lately, though I've heard some of them have malaria now,  
quite a few, but are managing in spite of it all. Being treated in situ.  
He hasn't reason to feel badly for having been spared a few extra months.  
Tell him that for me, will you Barrow?

 

It's good to hear that Edward is cheering Donk up with something.  
I usually played the clown of us. Sybbie the sweet, smart one. Violet the martinet.  
Good to know quiet little brother is beginning to branch out.

There is much more to write, but I've got men to check on and something purported to be beef stew to eat.  
Next week is my leave, and I've promised so many times to see Cairo that I finally will.  
I'll take photographs to prove it, and ship a copy to mama and to you so you'll see me.

 

It isn't nice here. It isn't home here, but it is safe enough  
given that there's a war on it's the best one could hope.  
And it does save me from granny plying me with young ladies of favorable families,  
so it even has SOME advantages.

If only it wasn't for the heat--it is much too warm!

Yours,  
George

 

-  
-  
-

 

15 August, 1943

My Darling Wife,

I wish I could be with you every day and feel our baby kick, for he sounds like he'll be quite the strong & active tike.  
It should be moments we have together, those.

It makes a man sad at the same time he's happy, you know.  
For I had promised myself that no son of mine would fail to have me daily in his life,  
and I'll break that promise already, it seems.  
But you know really, truly I won't once this war is over.  
You'll never get rid of me. I'll stick like a burr.

 

(I say 'son,' but I'd love a daughter as much truly.  
Hoping she'd look just like your beautiful self.)

And sharp as you.....  
I'm afraid I don't know the two types of sheep you and your aunt are debating.  
You'll need to send me more of a description. Or just make the decision on your own, since I trust you. Then tell me what I need to know as we go along.  
I'm a fast enough learner at least. I'll TRY to keep up with you.

 

I did have an idea on the cottage, and I'm enclosing a sketch below for you to think about.  
There's a place not too far from Yew Tree, with an old woman named Farrabee.  
She's an ancient woman with an ancient cottage that looks like it grew from the hillside, rather than was built.  
You might not want to visit her. (She's a fright until you get to know her.)  
So I've tried to draw out what I mean below.

 

As to frightening, I laughed at your description of the Campaign to tame Mrs. Lang.  
Good job, you. But do you really want to tame the old bat?  
If my uncle and your Granny both had a falling out with her, she must be a rather bad sort. (Yes, I understand that she might have had something about her that made them 'fall in' with her originally, but I'm not sure that makes her worthy of so much of your precious time.)

 

Everything sounds so wonderous there right now.  
Everyone safe for once.  
Like getting a moment's rest in the eye of a storm.

They have us run ragged down here, with no passes for a poor man in the foreseeable future.  
When I asked if we got leave for a baby's birth at least, the commander laughed.  
Apparently there would be too many passes out if they did that.  
('Passionate' leaves, not 'compassionate.' Such a commoner you've married to—makes me smile each time I hear the name repeated....just for the Truth of the Joke.)

 

Since I can't have leave, tell them all hello for me, and thank them for the box.  
Especially Daisy, for making me the most popular man around with her package of biscuits.  
Don't short the children for me. (But thank her nonetheless.)

This isn't very romantic.  
I should have written you a poem, tried to describe your face in a verse.  
An Ode to your Eyes.  
But I am a very bad poet, and I get lost in any moment when I even  
think of your lips.

 

Wishing I was kissing you right now,  
Your husband,  
Daniel


	76. Chapter 76

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-

 

“It's not such a secret maneuver when the whole countryside is debating it,” Sybbie said reasonably to her grandfather.  
Luncheon was a rather quiet affair, but at least they all were there for once, and she wanted to make the most of it by putting forth her petition now.  
“And it will somehow affect Daniel; it has to. Whether their division is first in line or last in line, they'll almost have to be Somewhere in line ….shipping away.”

 

“They'll not leave us defenseless, darling. Now don't fret so, perhaps he'll be left back to guard us here.”  
Cora nodded at her granddaughter and smiled reassuringly.  
They'd all remarked on Daniel's good fortune so far in postings, although, truly the first years  
he might have been facing an invasion, with him fighting to hold it off to the last ditch.

 

“He won't though. I know it from the things he's training in now. And I wouldn't say it in front of people like Rose....”  
(Or Daisy, she thought, giving Barrow a stare and a nod.)  
“I don't have any right to complain, of course. But it does seem cruel to send him off just when the baby is coming.”  
Sybil deployed her best weapon then, by turning wide blue eyes on her grandfather.  
“Some how I really need to travel to him.”

 

“If we went to Scotland to see that boring heir you wanted me to look at, surely Sybil can ride to Suffolk and see the man she's already married,” Violet's voice cut through the warm air sharply.  
She had no patience with nonsense. And it was nonsense, really, when a married woman didn't just get on a train and go where she'd like.  
“I'll go with you, Sybil, if you don't think you can manage alone.”

 

Across the table, Lady Mary's mouth quirked slightly, but she kept her eyes on her meal.  
If Violet was in the fray, she could comfortably sit back.  
Pity Tom hadn't just taken his daughter down already....several times, in fact.  
But, then, he still had some misgivings on the English army in general. (No longer those on Daniel in particular-- those seemed to have gone.)

 

“I'm not sure in your condition,” the old earl started, as delicately as he could to refer to the awkward subject.  
“I've lots of time yet, Donk, and you know I'd be fine. You and Bates could go to supervise the trip, too, if you felt up to it. Surely I wouldn't go wrong then.”  
(Sybil smiled at her cousin. The two young women could manage the trip and the two old codgers, couldn't they? Violet nodded once back, waiting to see her grandfather's return move.)

 

“Perhaps Barrow and I?” suggested Branson.  
He hadn't wanted to go at all, but if it was to go or have Robert take Sybil, well, he'd feel safer making the leap.  
“All of us, then?” Cora suggested, looking at Violet speculatively. There were officers in the posting, as well as friends she'd not dared suggest visiting, with travel not as safe going south as it once had been.

“All of us?” Robert choked out. Somehow before he'd much finished chewing and swallowing they'd moved from an impossible request to a family outing.  
“I'm sure we know someone down there to visit while Sybbie sees Daniel. You won't have to be bored at all.”  
Cora smiled and turned her wide blue eyes at her husband.

 

“We always know someone somewhere,” Mary said drily, causing Tom to huff slightly in amusement.  
And as Barrow brought round the tray a second time, she saw him pursing his lips slightly, too, so as not to too openly smirk.

\----

“But you can't be gone,” Daisy frowned.  
Thomas was confused by it. He'd thought she'd be pleased to have some time where the family wasn't making as many demands.  
It would let her cut some corners when he wasn't around....more time with Andy.  
If Thomas stayed, they'd have to keep up the semblance of regular work.

 

“He's not talking as much as I'd like, you know,” the cook said finally.  
They were alone, and she knew she could trust Thomas with her secrets. Still, it was hard to actually get this one out, since it was more Andy's than hers. 

“No, he wouldn't,” Thomas said, leaning back.  
(Did Daisy really think that her husband would tell her every detail of what he'd been through, having spent so much time avoiding things in letters?  
Besides, there were things he was probably not even telling Himself, other than to push them away and tell himself they weren't real.) 

“He wouldn't, Daisy,” Thomas repeated.  
“You never talked about it?” she asked then. “When you first came back?”  
Thomas seemed to pull back a bit into himself, looking at the woman. He knew she'd never intentionally hurt him, and yet...  
“Who'd I ever talk to?”

 

And at that, Daisy looked startled, really.  
“Why, to Jimmy when the two of you were friends. Or earlier, to one of your mates in the hospital; you always seemed to be thought of highly by the men.”  
“The officers,” he corrected. “And officers wouldn't've talked to the likes of me.”  
(He thought of the brief time with Edward Courtney then, before pushing back the pain into the past.)

 

“Why ever not?” she pushed. “Andy's friendly with the officers. And Mr. Crawley seemed to be friendly with you when he was recovering.  
Couldn't you talk to Mr. Matthew?”  
Thomas was almost glaring at her, feeling cornered.  
“Really, truly, Thomas, don't men EVER talk about things like this? Ever?  
“Even if not at first, if I need to keep myself out of it now, won't Andy talk about it Ever?  
Do you still keep it to yourself even now? Not even with Joe?”

 

And she looked at him, eyes wide and serious.  
Daisy didn't understand always, and she'd decided when she didn't the best thing was just Ask.  
She'd spent her early years being sheltered from facts, and she was tired of it.  
Had given up ignorance as much as she could when she'd started lessons all those years ago.  
Besides, she needed to KNOW to do what her Andy needed done.

 

“I...not really so much, though we have Some of it, bits and pieces off and on,” Thomas admitted.  
“We don't need to, though, since we both already know what happened.”  
“So, YES, we have some of it, the critical bits, but not in the way you seem to think.”

His jaw was still clenching, and he could feel it.  
Reaching over, he poured them more tea and tried to relax.  
This was supposed to just be him revealing a small surprise to Daisy, not the Inquisition.

 

She sat there quietly, munching on the biscuit with almost rabbit-like nibbles  
and thinking.  
He could see her thinking, could feel her thinking.  
The brown eyes turned on him, and her head tilted studying him.

“I'd want to talk about it. A problem shared is a problem halved,” she said, continuing to munch.  
“And he's not talking.”

 

“He won't probably,” Thomas ventured again.  
“He won't Much with you, and he doesn't need to with us.”  
She licked the last crumbs off her lips and huffed out, thwarted but not truly angry.  
“Men.”  
She put the tea things right for carrying and stood there a moment. 

“You do know I'd listen if you want to talk, don't you? I mean you said 'who'd you have talked to.' You could talk to me if ever you decided to.  
I don't know what happened, so I'd be a fresh tablet to write it out on if you think the others would be bored to hear.  
And we're friends so I'd be on your side no matter what.”

 

Thomas shook his head slowly.  
“You don't know that, Daisy.”

“Course I do.  
War, I don't know. But the rest, really truly I DO. Why, we're friends, Thomas. I've trusted you with my problems.  
Why is it, you wouldn't trust me?”  
She took his cup from him and picked up the tray.  
“Insulting it is, in't it, Mr. Barrow?”  
But she smiled at him, to take out the sting.

 

“And I'll try to not pester Andy, so thank you for the advice on that,” she nodded, smiled again, and went out the door. 

Thomas sitting there, letting the quiet ticking wrap around him,  
just a few moments, though, before picking up his pen to make plans for the family's trip.  
There was work to do.


	77. Chapter 77

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-  
“Well of course a lady's place is running her home, Eventually. But surely it's also greater than that, given the war.”  
The girl's voice carried a bit, certainly more than her dinner partner's murmured reply.

Violet Talbot being courted was worth watching, Thomas decided as he helped serve dinner at Oakhurst House,  
where the Crawleys were visiting for the week.  
“Well, I don't think so,” Violet firmly gave her next reply as she took a small portion off the tray he bent to offer.  
“And I don't see why you do.”

 

The boy was all of sixteen, a thin sprout of a lad.  
Outgoing, very handsome.  
But assuredly not as intelligent as Violet. By the third night they'd all definitely discovered that.

Miss Violet was making mincemeat of him, Barrow thought with a smirk.  
“You actually do work observing, then?” the boy seemed puzzled, voice a pleasant baritone.

“I suppose, though, you don't have to take the time to learn how to run the estate. That's for your brother,”  
and he nodded at Edward with whom he seemed to have a slightly better bond.

 

“My half brother,” Violet corrected. “Who's in North Africa.”  
“Which is why I think we must ALL do our part.”  
She stared the boy down. He might or might not have to wear a uniform, but to not help out beforehand seemed to Violet quite...odd.  
Why, even sheltered, there was always something to do.

 

“Mmmm...” the boy mumbled. “But when it's over, we'll need to retrieve some sense of normal life. And how will we do that if everyone's forgotten how to properly live?”

Violet's nostrils began to flare a bit then, as she struggled to maintain polite behavior.  
Even reflexive polite behavior, engrained since childhood, sometimes left her when faced with people such as this.  
(The corners of Barrow's mouth twitched slightly, observing the gimlet eyed stare. That boy, heir or not, had best duck for cover....)

 

“Your gardens. How lovely they are to walk in with the autumn colors,” Cora jumped in to save things.  
“We've had to remove ours mainly, replacing them with crops until, perhaps, the government has other plans.”  
“Pity,” the young man said, as eyes turned toward the countess.

“Yes, they've had talk of that here, too,” the Lady of the house replied.  
“But I just couldn't stand for it, to be without my flowers you know. It's all such an ugly business, this war, that we needed something beautiful to buck us up.”  
Mary rolled her eyes slightly at Tom then.  
Even at her most snobbish, she would have known not to be so selfish and naive during a war.

 

And now, Mary realized once again, she felt much like her daughter.  
Things had changed.  
She had changed. 

Much of it was from the divorce, realizing how it felt to be on the outside of most of society.  
But some of it was just living life and seeing that while being a 'Crawley' and upholding the family was the most important thing to her,  
it wasn't (just) because they were better than everyone else.  
It was because they were family.  
She'd love Tom and Sybbie just as much, place them just as high, and they had no real rank at all. 

 

Of course, she didn't declare that now.  
Mary simply took a serving of food and chewed quietly, smiled politely, and held back any declarations or manifestos.  
Violet wouldn't choose to marry into this lot, though, that was certain.  
And Mary couldn't find it in herself to be disappointed. She'd prefer an earl for a son in law, of course, but only if he was a good fit with the family first. 

 

“My friend Clarence says,” Lady Mary heard Edward pipe up, and she smiled.  
They'd had an unusual upbringing, her children, but it was better than hers in a way.  
Since it prepared them more for the modern, real world they'd be facing.

“This is delicious,” Lady Mary offered to her hostess, not listening to whatever the children said next.  
“You've made us so comfortable here, you must come visit us up north.”  
(They wouldn't, she knew. They had no intention of letting their prized son marry Violet now that they'd got a look at them.  
And Mary was glad of it, though she continued to play the game.)

\---

It was a small, cramped bed & breakfast in which Sybil was staying.  
Her father had deposited her here with some misgivings, though he'd met the old lady running it and seemed to approve of her quite enough.  
It was respectable.  
But it was certainly not luxurious.

She'd chosen it, however, for its location a few miles from where Daniel was posted.  
A long walk, she knew, but he could walk it even on a half day pass.  
All she had to do was wait.

 

Sybil, however, wasn't good at waiting.  
She'd gone through her things, rearranged items on the table top, tried to read a book before setting it down, even brought out a sketch pad (long ago discarded even though she was quite good at it).  
Anything to pass the time.

She'd have to find some way to repay Violet for falling on her sword, that much was certain.  
The child was helping her more than anyone had a right to expect.  
The family, too.  
Sybbie gnawed on her thumbnail before realizing and making herself stop.

 

“Mrs. Barrow?” the voice called up the stairs softly.  
“Mrs. Barrow?” On the second time, Sybbie started, realizing it was she whom the worthy woman wanted.

“I'm here. I'm...” and she went rushing down the steps and across to the door into her husband's arms.

 

The innkeeper smiled and motioned then. “Perhaps you'd like the sitting room for yourself, and I'll get tea? A small bit of chat with just the two of you.  
“I'll keep the rest out.”  
She smiled and motioned them forward, then backed away to make a tray.  
Whether they ended up in the front room or upstairs didn't so much matter, as long as they were out of the entrance.  
(The old woman chuckled, though, not feeling heartless. As near as her B&B was to the soldiers, she'd seen others make similar displays before.)

“Look at you,” Daniel grinned, when his mouth was finally not occupied in a more pleasant activity.  
“Look at you and little Whosis.”

 

“We'll work on names this week. Top priority,” she murmured, giving him another kiss.  
“I've been calling him Baby Barrow, but I actually heard Edward call it.....” here she stopped and huffed out.....”the Bump.”  
“Every other baby gets a wonderfully special nickname, and my cousin takes to naming mine The Bump.”

“Must be something from the wireless,” Daniel chuckled, nuzzling back.  
“Probably creative naming by Clarey Bates,” Sybil said, raising an eyebrow. “If it's not to be Baby Barrow, this child needs a real name.”

 

Daniel pulled her into his arms and held her, delighting in the feel of her, even different.  
Stroked her hair and kissed the top of it, that little place where it parted the wrong way.  
He hummed contentedly.  
“Eventually,” he said. “Eventually, Mrs. Barrow. But for now let's get upstairs before your landlady brings us tea we're required to politely drink.”

And he took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers,  
tilting his head toward the door with a devilish smile.

Of course, with that, his wife was helpless to do anything else,  
but follow where he led.

\---

Back up to the north in Yew Tree, Daisy was lying in Andy's arms. 

It had been a warm, lazy evening as the children sat one on each side at dinner, with the  
smiles of the old people following them.  
A walk in the twilight, a waning gibbous moon overhead.

 

Andy'd surprised her by saying he looked at the stars in the desert and thought they'd make her a beautiful necklace.  
But, having talked to Barrow, Daisy didn't push for more. She kissed the scarred knuckles of his hand and pulled his arm around her.  
Stood there looking up, and picked out the brightest star and told him she'd meet him there each night they were apart...  
Then suggested they needed some sort of sleep Together.

And with a grin, Andy'd followed his Daisy girl in to bed.  
Where he now had her tightly in his arms, enjoying each moment he had with her  
knowing they wouldn't last.


	78. Chapter 78

(Note: Time jump to November from the last chapter. )  
-  
-  
-  
-

 

Andy Parker couldn't stay at Yew Tree forever, couldn't even stay frequently as autumn wore on and it got closer to his division's return.  
Everything had to be at the ready, bureaucratic demands for paperwork met.  
(Were they ever, though, truly & finally met?)

The work of it both wore at Andy and lifted him with a feeling of gladness that he'd finally see the others back.  
(Most of them, the ghosts in his memories whispered in his ear.)

 

It was 6 November, 1943 by the time the ship discharged his comrades in Liverpool, an impatient yet weary line.  
They had orders to take the insignias off of their uniforms, since movements weren't supposed to be obvious.  
But the locals had managed to find out anyway, putting up a homely banner to welcome them back.

And Andy laughed when he got to the dock and saw the thing hanging there, sad little thing yet proud at the same time.  
It was the cheek & ingenuity that pleased him, settled him a bit in spite of the nerves from seeing his men for the first time in months.  
Parker's officers had hopped out immediately, of course, Making Much of official business and leaving Andy to loiter about and await their call.

 

Immediately his senses were assaulted by the industrious dockyard--the grinding of metal, clanking of wenches and chains; petrol and diesel mixing with an overall smell of damp. (Andy took out a cigarette both to calm himself and to push away the smell of rot that seemed part of the place.)

In front of him was the hulking Dutch ship that carried the men this last month.  
The only 'wet' ship in the convoy—Andy was sure that had added to some of the mischief on board.  
Dutch gin.  
He grinned some more. He'd never been much of a drinker, and he'd undoubtedly not have done well on the trip. 

 

The ship itself looked ancient--part of a convoy sailing by way of Algiers and splitting off from its partners north of Ireland to deliver the men to Glasgow, Liverpool, and Bristol.  
Once this particular sturdy old tub had been a Cruise ship, first class fitted with woodwork and fancy trim.  
Now its paint job looked patchy from the rushed nature of the repairs.  
A fire in hold five just before the division had been taken on left scars still on hatches on the spar deck.

 

A wreck, Andy thought. They've sent the men the newsreels call heroes home on an ancient wreck, rusty and rude.  
He was sure they hadn't minded (much) though, as long as the bucket stayed afloat.  
“Let's on with it, Parker,” one of the officers hopped back in beside him, startling him.  
“We need to go to where the convoy is stationed and lead our little lost lambs back to their temporary home.  
“Then parcel out the disembarkation leaves before we get back to work.”

\---

George Crawley felt the sea air rake at him as he stood on the deck of the hospital ship.  
The large smoke stack front of center belched black clouds out as they chugged along.  
Over 400 feet stem to stern and over 50 feet wide, the old lady had been gutted and retrofitted with everything a medical man could want. (Except ground that didn't pitch under one's feet.)  
Add the paint job of a Red Cross—peeling a bit, but still distinctive—and you had one of his Majesty's hospital ships. 

Impressive, really.

George quietly paced the periphery of the deck.  
It wasn't that he was nervous, but they'd all heard the story of HMHS Newfoundland being hit back in September, damaged so badly it was forced to be scuttled.  
The enemy wasn't always honoring that Red Cross, then.  
Crawley just thought it prudent to keep an eye out whenever he could. 

 

They were humming along well enough: doctors, nurses, patients, and naval personnel cohabiting peacefully.  
Every little space below decks was carefully and ingeniously alotted.  
The young doctor liked the organization of all that, appreciated the tidy order of things.  
It made it much easier to spend a month floating out on the sea.  
But still he paced, as though he could in some ways hurry the travel home by walking.  
But the weeks just found them chugging on.

 

He was a landsman, he was, though Crawley supposed anyone born in England had some sense of the water deep inside him somewhere.  
Bred into his bones from ancestors if nothing else.  
Even so, he'd be glad to disembark when they got there.  
The wind whipped his blond hair into his eyes as he looked out over the undulating waves—blue, grey, green, tipped with white. No land for the eye to see.

\---

Danny didn't understand it, really.  
They'd been told that they'd fight in the front of things when they opened the second front.  
Well, not so much told as rumored to.  
Which with the division coming back from North Africa to mix in with them,  
should have meant months more of integration and training before anyone was to attack. 

 

Except he wasn't going to attack—not in the opening of a second front at least.  
In some sort of odd command decision, Daniel's men were shipping out to Italy, the very place men much as Andy's had just weeks ago left.  
(It wasn't tit for tat, but it was Italy he was going to....somewhere in Italy, eventually,  
though first by way of Algiers.)

 

The commander had tried to be fair with things, parceling out what he could of leaves to men who could get home. A trip to Downton couldn't be accomplished in a day pass, so Barrow was left off the list.  
(It was fortunate, indeed, that Sybil'd made the trip down to see him or they wouldn't have had any time together at all that fall.)

 

Daniel's chief regret was that the baby would almost certainly be born while he was on some cursed ocean. Not only wouldn't he be there for the delivery, he might not even get a message of it until they docked...days or weeks after the birth.  
It was disheartening, that. Daniel had dreamed one day of having a family.  
Had dreamed of it the entire time he grew up, how he'd live his life when he was old enough to be a father and a man.  
And here he was doing none of the things he'd thought. 

 

Irritated, he kicked at the plating.  
“Oi! Barrow! Don't poke a hole in the tin can before we cast off in it!”  
One of his mates hung around the corner, grinning.  
“Come on, then. Come and see what sort of mess this is below decks, and you'll have a laugh.  
We'd best get things stowed and organized before the officers see.”

 

With one last glare at the port they'd soon be leaving, Daniel went down to find his way.  
They'd been training for this, after all, the fighting and (hopefully) winning of a war.  
Daniel sighed.  
He supposed it was finally time for him to get into the thick of it, though he'd found the work so far quite demanding enough.

 

\---

Sybbi knew what Daniel's orders were, and even received a last hurried telephone call before they'd gone on board.  
And with that call, she realized the finality of things.  
She might never see him again, or at the very least it would be quite a long time before she saw him  
or heard his voice.  
The taste of him would become just a memory to her.

Overcome in the realization, Sybil went to her room to hide and cry.  
It wasn't right of her to cry in front of Daisy, whom she knew to have suffered so much.  
(Whom she knew would sometime be saying another goodbye of her own.)  
Sybil didn't think it fair to burden Barrow, either, at least not until she got over that first hideous sobbing time which was her mood today.

 

So she'd gone up to her room where she could be by herself,  
threw herself on the bed,  
and sobbed.  
Pounded the pillows, wailed a bit,  
and let herself just feel whatever she felt.

 

About an hiccuping hour later, Sybil Barrow wiped her eyes, got a cool wet flannel from the bathroom and wiped her face, then went downstairs.  
Her waters had broken.  
She'd promised Barrow she'd not make him deliver the baby,  
so she had to get back to a telephone.

However, no matter what, after that she was finding him & making him stay nearby.  
For if she couldn't have both Barrows with her, she'd at least have the elder one.  
Because it was going to be a difficult night.


	79. Chapter 79

(Note: Some of you might hate this name.)

-  
-  
-

 

Doctor Hollingsworth got to the big house in plenty of time, too much of it in fact.  
After checking the expectant mother and handing off to a midwife, he settled in for some sandwiches the cook had prepared.  
(Perhaps a good cigar next, he thought.)  
It was much ado about nothing, really, but the doctor knew better than to say that to the Crawleys—all of whom looked spooked.

 

“You'll stay the night, though, won't you?” Lady Grantham said in that gentle, accented voice of hers, as though it was an invitation when it was actually an order.  
Hollingsworth smiled and nodded. “If it takes that long. We've all of this evening, tonight, and early morning. Of course, I have rounds after that.”  
And he left it there.  
If the president of the board wanted to figure out someone else to do mid morning rounds, that was up to her, but he wouldn't make promises he couldn't keep. 

“I've told Barrow to make you a room where you can get some rest between checks on her.”  
Cora nodded. “Thank you, doctor. You know we had a difficult time when Sybil herself was born.”

 

Hollingsworth retired, then, leaving the hand holding to the various family members and staff rotating through, currently falling to Lady Mary and her maid. 

\---

Meanwhile Clarey and Edward were manning an alcove at the end of the hallway, noting not only who was entering and exiting, but also if Sybil seemed to need help.  
They'd bumped out the hall boys a bit, intent on doing some small part of things when their mothers had decided they were not allowed inside the room.  
(It annoyed both of the boys, it truly did, since they'd both lay down their lives for Sybil.  
She'd been very good to them, and they had come to think of the Bump as partly their own.)

 

“Master Edward. Clarey?”  
The butler's voice near them made both boys jump.

“Barrow, how do you always do that?” Edward said, having unclutched his hand from his shirt.  
It wasn't the first time he'd been quietly startled, and certainly not the first time Barrow had found him in places he oughtn't to be.  
“May I be of assistance, Master Edward?”

 

The only tell that the butler was tense was a tightness of his jaw and the act of intentionally loosening his shoulder muscles.  
“Miss Sybbie will be fine, you both should know. And you both should get some rest.”

Clarey Bates smiled, bold as brass.  
“But we want to help, just like you. Even if all we do is keep watch and run errands, we'd still like to try.”  
Edward nodded. “It IS Sybbie, after all.”  
The smaller lad stood, quietly fidgeting, and Barrow wanted to pull him aside and talk to him until he calmed some. 

 

However, being with his friend was helping already, and Barrow himself might unnerve the boy more.  
The butler huffed.  
“Very well, sit quietly. But if you get bored or need anything, make sure that you don't do something which pulls anyone off of their duties tonight.”  
He looked at Clarey directly. “No rambles?”

“Course not,” Clarey protested indignantly.  
“We'll help out.”  
Edward nodded.  
“But do tell us, Barrow, when you go back in if there's anything more we can do?”

 

The butler nodded at the boys and went forward, squaring his shoulders.  
He remembered all too vividly those many, many years ago being awakened and told the news about Lady Sybil.  
He didn't think there was any danger of that in this case, but none of them would go to sleep tonight anyway, worried of a repeat.

\---

 

“I don't need to be fussed over,” Sybbie was protesting as Anna tried to turn her pillows to help her rest.  
It was a cool night, though not really cool enough for a fire. Still Barrow went over and laid one and lit it, opening the window just a bit to let in fresh air. 

“Should you do that?” worried Lady Mary, but then she stopped herself.  
It was Barrow, and he would only do what he thought best.  
“It's quite nice, actually,” Sybbie spoke up, then nodded at Anna to thank her, too. 

 

The girl settled back into the pillows, hair falling this way and that.  
Anna tutted and began to smooth it gently.  
“The midwife is in the dressing area and Dr. Hollingsworth is just down the hall,” the butler said softly as he came next to her,  
hand unintentionally going to pat her through the counterpane.  
“And if worst comes to worse you've still got me.”

Sybbie laughed. “No, I promised...”  
But her voice was cut off by a little yip of pain and her face screwed up with it.  
Reaching, she grabbed for his hand, needing an anchor in the midst of the wave.  
Moments later, however, she panted slightly, huffed out in exasperation, and let go.  
“I apologize,” she said weakly. 

 

“None of that,” Mary said from the other side.  
“None at all,” agreed Thomas.  
And Sybil smiled back and forth between the two.  
“I don't want to lose either of you, but I do have to ask....is someone taking care of daddy?”

Her aunt smiled slightly.  
“Donk is trying to keep him calm in some sort of male bonding ritual with drinks downstairs.  
“And if that doesn't work, the doctor can sedate him until morning. I know you'd like him in here, darling, but I'm not sure that would help either of you.”

 

“No,” Sybbie said, “That's what I'm worried about. That it will be too much for his heart, this night of it. I don't want to have a baby only to have him fall ill.”  
“He's fine,” her aunt said firmly. “But now that Barrow's back, perhaps I'll go down and check on them both. Would that help?”  
The girl nodded.  
“I just worry about his heart, you know.”

“And you shouldn't worry about anything but this baby,” Mary nodded, looking over at Anna before leaving.  
“She's right, you know,” the maid said coming closer.  
“Just focus on having the baby, and everything else will fall into place.”

 

“If the pains are fairly far apart, it might yet be a long while,” Thomas added, trying to keep his face reassuring.  
“What would you like us to do?”

“Well, first, you could sit down, for heavens sake. Sit with me and keep holding my hand like that.”  
She blew a puff of air out, fluttering the stray curls around her face.  
“And don't mind what I say when I get out of sorts, will you? I don't mean to be horrid, but I'm finding it very difficult not to curse.”

Anna's lips pressed together to keep from laughing.  
Such an innocent girl, gently raised, their Sybil. Anna very much doubted she knew what real cursing even was.  
“You're fine, Miss Sybbie,” she said, and with a bit of a grin. “Sing out if you want, no one's going to sleep tonight anyway. Feel free to say whatever you'd like.”

\---

 

It was almost dawn before the doctor needed to actually come and help.  
And though it had been painful off and on for all those hours, when it came to the final event,  
Sybil Barrow delivered with what her aunt teased her was most 'uncouth and common ease.'

And the baby, a tiny red little thing squawked loudly, proving herself quite capable of being heard.  
Her.  
A girl.  
A few days before the baby had only been in her imagination, and how different it felt to see her wrapped and real. 

 

Tiny and perfect, a rosebud mouth once she settled down.  
“She's exquisite,” Mary announced before going to open the door and send for the rest of the family.  
Thomas, going over, looked down.  
“To think I knew you when you were just that size,” he said in a voice grown rather thick.

 

Sybil smiled.  
Then she looked at the baby and murmured, “how do you like the world so far, little girl? Now that you can finally see out?”  
The baby yawned and curled a tiny hand around her finger.  
Sybbie was enchanted then, smiling and tearing up as her father and grandparents came to add their congratulations.  
“What will you call her, darling girl? Have you decided?” her grandfather had commandeered the infant and was cradling her gently.

 

“She'll have to wait for Daniel, papa,” Mary suggested.  
“Oh, no, we decided,” Sybbie said, almost proudly. “We decided names when we were together down south.”

They turned and waited, and as she held her arms out, the old earl returned the bundle to her.  
(There was a moment of soft cooing and smiles.)

 

“May I present,” she said in her best speaking voice.  
“May I present Mary Margaret. We decided Mary for Aunt Mary, and Margaret for Daniel's mother. Besides, it's a solid Irish name for daddy.”  
(Her aunt's cheeks flushed pink, and Sybbie knew she was overcome when she didn't manage a word.)  
“There have been a few Bransons by that name and quite recently, too,” Tom smiled and bent to kiss her.  
“But we'd all best leave and let you rest.”

The leaving took a while, interspersed as it was by love and well wishes, but finally the Crawleys made it out the door.

After they filed out and the nurse came to put the baby in the cradle, Sybbie paused.  
“Mary Margaret Barrow,” Sybil repeated, looking over to smile at Thomas where he Still stood in the corner silently watching over her.  
“With a name like that she's sure to be strong.”


	80. Chapter 80

-  
-  
-

Sybil didn't feel much like doing anything for the first week or two of it after the delivery.  
She was tired, and she insisted on keeping the baby near her which made her more tired yet.  
“That's what nurses are for,” her Aunt Mary prompted.

“And I'm glad to have one in these early months,” Sybbie'd said sensibly, “but I still want MaryMargaret near.  
“There's something in me that wants to have her at arm's length.”  
She bent over her gurgling daughter and reflexively smiled in spite of her fatigue.

 

“Well, you'll have to put that feeling somewhat aside if you ever want to get on with your life.  
You haven't asked once about the WVS,” the older woman tried to distract her.  
(That was how the family'd tried to bring Mary back to herself after her deliveries, after all.)

“Oh, that'll be well in hand thanks to Mrs. Lang. She's been quite a source of support these last months.”  
Sybil stopped suddenly, two pink spots painting her cheeks. 

 

“What is it, darling? Are you feeling poorly?”  
“No, it's just....” Sybbie hesitated again, but she might as well let it out.

“Well, she doesn't want anyone to know, but Mrs. Lang used to work for granny.  
And she doesn't think any of you would approve of her coming to the village, even for her checks on the WVS.”  
It came out in one blurted breath, Sybbie not built for keeping secrets.

 

Still, instead of a shocked expression, Mary merely raised an eyebrow and smirked.  
Did the child really think she hadn't found this fact out at the Start of things?  
The house didn't hold secrets from Mary. 

Anna had told her, and after some debate, she'd mentioned it to Cora.  
(It was around the time Barrow found the necklace from O'Brien. The cheap thing, fallen between some cushions, sparked her mother's sentiment.  
Which Mary thought foolish, but it wasn't really her affair...)  
However,  
“I think that will be fine,” was All Mary said.  
“As long as she treats you well.”

 

Sybbie nodded, and hummed, and puttered around with the baby—not depressed, more obsessed.  
“You should get out and get some air,” Mary pushed again. “Even if it's not to the village.”

“Oh, I've been out a bit in the greenhouses. Edward had the same mission as you. But it just seems safer to be within arm's reach.”  
And Sybil picked up the baby and jiggled her, causing the child to give a small burp.

 

Mary sniffed, but then gave over to a smile. “My grand niece needs some manners.”  
She went over closer to the baby herself.  
“And a bit of ribbon to tie back that one shock of hair. Goodness, I hope it grows in better.”  
Sybbie frowned at her aunt.  
“I'm not saying she's not beautiful.” Mary put out a fingertip and watched her namesake grab it.  
“She's beautiful, definitely. But she'll need to grow more around the edges to make a go.”

 

“Her eyes are lightening some. I think they'll be grey like Daniel's.”  
Sybbie dimpled.  
(She'd been told every baby's eyes were blue, and she'd not known if it was correct or not.)  
“Blue-grey. Like the color of clouds.”

 

Mary huffed, then drawled, “Well, she'd better have something of the Crawleys about her. We need representation too, you know.”  
But the baby yawned and the older woman smiled.  
It was much easier to love a baby when you weren't brought low by the delivery.  
“Let me carry her a bit while you rest some,” she offered. “It's foolish not to let the nurse do her job, but at least we can try to keep you from wearing yourself out.”

\---

 

A few hours later it was the sound of loud voices that brought Sybil out of a light doze.  
Her aunt was still nearby, but sitting next to the baby's crib, watching, whilst not holding her in her arms.  
“What?” Sybbie managed.

“I'm not sure. I'll go and...”  
The door burst open and a smiling face appeared. A face so happy and so unexpected that it took a second or two to react.  
“Georgie!” Mary finally breathed out, surging from the rocker and grabbing his arm.  
“Mama,” he laughed and hugged the thin woman next to him.

 

Over her shoulder he looked at Sybil next.  
“Lying down on the job are we, cousin?”  
She laughed and went to him, completing the circle of arms.

 

And they stood there a moment, not saying anything as first Tom and then Robert & Cora came in to them, alerted by Barrow.  
Their boy was home.  
The heir had arrived.  
And he had a disembarkation leave of two weeks to dally, before reporting to Knutsford for preparation in this next big maneuver (about which they all were supposed to pretend to know nothing....)  
whenever it might come.

\---

 

“The worst of it for us was during the battles, of course.”  
George sprawled across the chair Later in Barrow's office, looking at once far older than his years and  
at the same time nothing more than a five year old who'd escaped from his room.

“They kept sending us more and more casualties until all we could do was the least amount necessary, no finesse, no tidy stitching, just save their lives and move on.”  
Barrow pressed his lips together, still feeling a bit overcome by the boy's return.  
“But you saved them, Master George. And that's what's impressive.”

 

“Not much of it." (The boy looked proud of the older man's praise, but wouldn't take credit when he felt it undue.)  
"Most of the ones who were worst off didn't make it to us, except for a very few tricky cases who were stabilized and managed to be pushed on.  
“Ask Andrew if he thinks it's impressive, that scar on his leg. If I'd had more time of it, I could have managed better—still a scar, true, but better.  
But if I took the time, I would have lost the next man up.”  
George stretched and rolled up, scratched at his chin, then reached for where Daisy had brought in a veritable mountain of snacks.  
He'd ruin his dinner at this rate, but he still took a handful with a blissful sigh.

 

“God, I missed this.”  
Barrow nodded. “She's a good cook, our Mrs. Parker, even with the shortages.”

“Well that, too,” George said. “I missed her cooking every evening out.  
But I missed being able to just rattle on and have you listen.  
“You see, when you're an officer and a doctor, you have to maintain a certain.....” he lowered the timbre of his voice “...impressive decorum.”

 

“People have to have confidence in you as their leader or their healer.  
It's nice to just be here and be able to rattle on about things without feeling like you'd think  
I've gone mad.”

“I'd never think that,” Barrow said, shaking his head.  
“Or, rather, I've seen you behave in rather mad ways as a child that always had some  
perfectly plausible explanation in the World According to Master George.”

 

Georgie reached over and took a deep sip of tea, savoring it.  
“I suppose it's wrong that I'm enjoying being treated like a child.”  
He sighed slightly.  
“And I'll behave myself upstairs....mainly....so as not to embarrass anyone, but it's awfully nice to feel like some things never change. That home's still home.”

 

Barrow nodded.  
“Home is still home. Your family hasn't changed a thing in your room since you left for university, much less now.  
“And by tomorrow you'll have all your favorite dishes for luncheon and dinner. We would have had them tonight if you'd let us know ahead.”  
His tone was dry, mock scolding.

George sprang up and straightened his uniform.  
“I know. But I wanted to surprise everyone.  
“I 'got' Sybbie best, but she outdid me, of course. She always could.  
Imagine Sybbie with a daughter. Golly.”

 

And the boy reached for the door knob.  
“I'll be back down, of course, but I'd best go back up for now and make the rounds again.  
Not that I mind being fussed over....I'm rather enjoying it, actually.”  
Barrow nodded, smiling without meaning to.

 

“Tell Mrs. Parker thanks for the treats, and I'll go see Andrew tomorrow or the next day at the latest when I make a round through York.”  
And with that, he was gone, leaving Thomas breathless.  
It was like all the vitality had been sucked from the room with his exit.  
Young Georgie had not only grown up, but seemed somehow larger than himself with his new experiences.  
More assertive. More talkative.  
Barrow wasn't sure how that had happened, but he intended to try to figure it out.

\---

 

“So your boy is back,” Miller said, coming in the office door and going to sit.  
By then it was getting dark, and Barrow was behind schedule,  
not coming down yet as Joe had expected.

“He is,” agreed Thomas, nodding, smiling.  
“He is.”  
And Thomas moved close enough to grab hands.  
Entwining fingers, leaning to rest against the other man for a second.

Barrow sighed.

“I'm glad,” Joe said,  
and they sat there a few moments with eyes closed, just enjoying  
a peaceful moment, knowing how valuable and rare such things were  
in the midst of war.

“So am I,” Thomas admitted. “Soppy old fool that it makes me...so am I.”


	81. Chapter 81

 

-  
-  
-

“With me being the godparent and you being great uncle, it's almost like we're related,” smiled George Crawley, holding the baby and standing next to his Barrow.  
“We aren't related, Master George,” the butler murmured, smoothing down the baby's christening gown—an impossibly fussy thing covered with tucks and bows.

“In a way we already were. The way that counts beyond blood,” George murmured back.  
He wasn't about to wake MaryMargaret. If angered, the tiny thing had a yowl like an air raid siren.

 

Barrow looked at the boy fondly.  
“Now, Master George,” he scoffed.  
“Now, Barrow,” the young man mimicked back, inflection perfect.

“Photographs,” Sybil exclaimed coming up and putting a hand on either man's shoulder.  
She leaned in to smile at her baby, but the smile wasn't quite as vivid as usual.  
“This seems so terribly wrong without Daniel.”

Murmuring comforting noises, the two cousins made the transfer of the precious cargo one to the other.  
Straightening, Sybil started to walk, George and Thomas one on either side as an honor guard.  
“A baby can't go on forever without being baptized,” reasoned George. “And I wanted a firm claim in it once you asked me.  
“Once they send me over again, I might not get back for a while.”

“Hush, now,” murmured Sybbie as the baby stirred slightly.  
But she could have been saying it to Georgie, too.  
“Hush now, none of that.”

 

“Lord Grantham with the mother and child first, I think,” the photographer directed.  
“Perhaps add in the grandfather, too?”

Mary nudged Tom forward.  
“That would be you, grandpapa.”  
He snorted and obeyed. 

 

A nice arrangement was snapped.  
“The four generations of women?” the photographer suggested.  
And with only the slightest pause, the Barrow women took their positions next to Cora and Sybbie.  
“Lady Mary?” the man asked. 

“I'm the aunt, not the mother,” she corrected.

“Near enough,” Margaret Barrow said under her breath, frowning.  
“Near enough,” Sybbie echoed more loudly, and Mary was pulled into the frame.  
“And now great aunt and great uncle?” Sybil whispered quietly to her aunt.

 

“Great aunt and great uncle,” Lady Mary smirked, rolling her eyes, knowing Sybbie wanted a snap with  
Barrow in the frame.  
And the man came and stood next to them, feeling both comfortable when it came to being next to Sybbie.  
And uncomfortable when put on par with Lady Mary, though they'd had much in common over the years.  
The baby made a cooing sound and he reflexively reached out a finger.

 

“Look at the camera, not my name sake if you please, Uncle,”  
Lady Mary said ironically. 

And Thomas brought his eyes up to her in surprise, just as she grinned at him,  
enjoying his flush as his servant's mask dropped, just for a second.  
Which was how the photograph caught them.  
Sybil's favorite photograph of the two.

\---

“We won't go in until after the invasion secures things, of course,” Georgie said reassuringly to this grandparents.  
Back at the Abbey, champagne was steadily flowing in honor of the event.  
“I'm not sure when they'll open the second front, but they'll keep our hospital back for a while. Send some of the men home to treat.”

“That's what they did in the Great War,” Robert agreed, sipping his drink.  
He was thankful George was well behind the lines, though he worried even that had dangers.  
The earl loved all of his grandchildren, it was true, but it was especially concerning if anything would happen to George, since he was the only immediate heir.

 

“So what's in Knutsford?” Cora asked, curious for what made the medical corps station him there.  
“I'm not sure,” George smiled and raked a fringe of hair back in place.  
“I've got used to never asking.”

“Follow orders without question?” Tom prodded, as he and Mary came up next to them.  
“No, just keeping my questions for when I think there's the possibility of an accurate, useful answer.”  
George smiled at his uncle. “It keeps the numbers rather low.”  
Tom took a drink and nodded to agree.

 

“I feel safe enough, but it worries me we'll lose someone else before this thing is over.  
The Italians have given over, but the Germans have a fight or die attitude that worries me. We've treated them as prisoners of war,  
and at least fresh off the battlefield, their officers didn't seem to appreciate the option of surrender even when it saved their lives.”  
Mary rolled her eyes.  
“Really, Georgie. Let's be happy that you won't be in the front of it, and that you're here tonight.”

 

“And that we have a new baby in the house?”  
“Of course.”  
“It will be nice that you and Uncle Tom get to play granny and gramps for a while,” Georgie said, smiling.  
He didn't know if his mother, who was occasionally vain, would want to think of herself old enough to have a grandchild. 

“Great aunt,” Mary corrected.  
“As Mrs. Barrow said 'close enough,'” Tom smiled. “You've raised Sybbie as much as I have. You might as well enjoy playing grandmother until you marry your youngster off.”

 

“Oh,” exclaimed Cora. “That reminds me....”  
And George closed his eyes and smirked slightly, knowing what was coming next.  
It surprised him it had taken his grandmother this long to trot out her list of possible matches.  
And yet. And yet. It still held no appeal to him right at that moment.  
To marry and go off to war, even well behind the lines, seemed foolish to George. 

It made for too many widows.  
But the young man smiled and nodded and was pleasant,  
as was his role.

\---

 

“You look exhausted. Don't you want to take a nap?” Violet asked Sybbie as they sat over to the side in comfortable chairs.  
“I am exhausted, but I'm resisting it. If I go now, I'll be up, worrying all night.”

“Think of other things rather than Daniel,” Violet commanded blandly.  
“You wouldn't understand,” Sybbie answered a bit condescendingly. “What on earth could I ever think of which would in any way compete with worries about Daniel?”

 

“Hmmm...” Violet thought a moment, admitting it might be a challenge. The two families had managed the ceremony amazingly well.

(Her eyes lit up, but she hesitated, tilting her head and considering if it really was the time to be Shocking. Sybil's slight laugh decided her.)  
“What Mrs. Barrow said?”  
“What?” asked Sybbie confused.  
“That mama was as good as a mother to you,” the girl responded.  
Sybbie waved her hand dismissively.  
“She is. That's not so much of a news bulletin.”

 

“She's as good as a mother to you. And your father's been as good as a father to me.....well, with help from Barrow.”  
“You have a father,” Sybbie chuckled.  
“Who doesn't show up. Ever,” Violet clarified.  
“Well, I don't mind if you've decided to share,” Sybbie added calmly.  
“That certainly won't keep me distracted.”

 

“Mmmm,” Violet said smugly.  
Edward walked up then. “What? What's going on?”  
His sister had one of her Looks.  
“I was just suggesting to Sybbie that her father had helped raised us. And today Mrs. Barrow pointed out that mama had raised Sybbie, too.”

“Which we've known all along,” Edward nodded. “But Violet....”  
He shook his head Warningly. 

“I just think Sybbie should consider why they aren't really married.  
Her father. Our mother.  
We're already a family. Even outsiders see it."

 

Sybil's eyes widened somewhat and she sat up straighter in her seat.  
“Married?”  
“Well, you said you needed something to distract you. Why not helping us figure out how to get your father to propose to mama?”  
Violet nodded decisively.  
Sybil sputtered, (“They aren't....They can't....”)  
then looked to Edward hoping for some salvation. 

 

The boy failed her, putting palms up and shrugging his shoulders.  
“Letty and I have been talking about this for some time now, with her arguing the logic of the thing.  
“I simply assumed they're happier as they are and have made her leave it alone.”  
Edward gave his sister a bit of a glare. (Which was like watching a kitten staring down a tigress.)

Sybbie started to giggle, putting hands over her mouth to smother the sound. 

 

“Are you children doing all right?” her mother and uncle came up behind them.  
Sybbie startled and barely managed to squeak out “fine.”  
Edward nodded solemnly.  
“I was just suggesting Sybbie go up and get some rest,” Violet said calmly. “She seems completely unwound.”


	82. Chapter 82

-  
-  
-

It was time for Andy to go back to a normal soldier's schedule.

His men were gathering once more, back from disembarkation leaves, and he needed to travel south where they'd be issued clothes & equipment.  
Begin to practice how to be soldiers on something other than sand, mixed with Other divisions of men who'd not seen any hand to hand action at all.  
(Some of whom hadn't even left Britain yet, this far into the war.)

 

“I wish they could just do the training in Yorkshire whilst they wait for things to begin,” Daisy complained,  
dreading another long time apart.  
“Not all of the men gathered will be from here, though,” he replied evenly.  
She huffed, hating the reasonable tone.  
They stood together in Yew Tree's kitchen, holding each other and swaying to the low sounds of music in the background.  
Sighing, she tried to even more thoroughly engrave the feel of him on her mind.

 

“You'll be fine, Daisy girl, and so will I.  
I'll be back sooner this time; you'll see.  
You can't keep an Englishman from winning once he's got his feet under him in a fight.”

She kissed him and did her best to smile.  
“Course you will, you daft man. You'll be fine--really truly you will,  
and I'll keep the children from running wild 'til you get back.”

 

He smiled softly, dark hair falling into his eyes. Kind eyes.  
Pulled her more tightly into his arms, thinking how he hoped things would go smoothly....  
breathing in the scent of her, feeling the strength of her.  
Took a look around them at the warmth and beauty of it all,

Worried it might be the last he'd ever see of home.

\---

“It's not too very hot here,” Daniel remarked, looking about him.  
“I kept hearing it baked you alive.”  
They'd moved to the new position and were mainly lying about in tents waiting to move on.  
His friend Mitchell scoffed slightly.  
“Well, it's winter now, in't it? Maybe we'd be roasting if they left us here 'til summer....though there'd be nought for profit in that.”

They'd be moving over to Sicily in a few days, then quickly to Italy, it was rumored, so perhaps it wasn't as idiotic as it seemed  
to plump men down in the middle of a desert who'd been trained for the hedgerow warfare expected in France.  
And once in Sicily they'd try to figure out what of their training still applied, and what had to be done over.

 

Daniel rolled over on his side, sighing, and rummaged in his pack for writing materials.  
It was boring here, and he was frustrated with all the back and forth in the orders.  
So far, boredom and waiting were much of his experience in war.

At least the guns were the same.  
The young man was used to the feeling now, watchful wariness. Feeling that it was unlikely you'd need to shoot, but still keeping a steady watch.  
“If the Italians surrendered, why haven't the allies ALREADY moved on up the boot?” he asked. 

 

“The Italians gave over, but their good friends the Germans didn't. All mixed in and dug in, like nests of angry bees.  
“And, then, there are some of the natives who aren't happy with the armistice we have with Badoglio.”  
“So it'll be to separate out the friendly natives from the natives who simply appear to be friendly, while we try to dodge our air support, bombing the angry, armed nests.”

Mitchell made it sound like a game.

 

Daniel took up his pen and tried to think what to write Sybil.  
She'd sent him photographs from the baptism, making him both sad and proud at the same time.  
(Why, that's the first photo I've ever had of granny. How'd Sybil manage to talk the old woman into that?  
Then...So that's what our Mary looks like. He'd studied it over so often the edges were rubbed soft.)

He was a father, a father to a beautiful, brilliant daughter.  
Sybil herself was enough to keep him fighting until he got home, but now the additional weight of wanting to watch his daughter grow  
made it more sure still. 

 

“Well,” he said to his friend, though no longer looking at him. “We'll have to do it quickly. I've a family to get back to.”  
And laughing, the other man nodded. “I'll agree that's right.”

\---

Young Dr. Crawley had enjoyed his leave and was now enjoying settling them into their new location.  
It was rather like being at university once more, though at a different location south of home.

For the time being volume was low as far as patients, and they were learning how to pick up and move their equipment. Either to make due with a 'found' facility as the line moved or to use temporary space.  
It was heartening that the commanders expected they'd have to do this off and on, quickly, since it meant they hoped to move the Germans back quickly, too.  
But, then, maybe they were just being optimists, George thought. He'd been guilty of that himself.

 

The fighting was still fierce in the 'underbelly' of Italy, but it had bucked them up  
the progress they'd managed to make.  
Of course, the wireless messages had been very careful to caution them that this wasn't the end of things.  
The American, Eisenhower, had spoken against feeling overconfident, but it still was heartening after so many years of war.

 

“You've a pile of mail again, doctor,” the nurse gave him a pert smile.  
“I've a pile of relations,” he grinned back, easily.  
Truly, though, a few of the letters were from friends of his granny. Rather granddaughters of her friends.  
Cora Crawley was a force.

“I'm thinking the perfumed one isn't from your sister,” the nurse replied, turning on her heel and tossing her head.  
Georgie'd gone to a moving picture with the girl and liked her, but not seriously enough to bring things forward as quickly as she'd seemed to want.  
(A lawyer's daughter, though, just as he was a lawyer's son. Not up to his grandmother's standards, but nice all the same.)

 

“My grandmother,” he called after her.  
She laughed. “Granny's got good taste in scents.”  
George smiled, watching how she moved as she walked away.  
(No, my grandmother has me on the market to all of these girls, he wanted to explain.  
However, why should he explain at all? He liked Liz, but they had no 'understanding,' other than an understanding that was at the level of friends.)

 

“Woolgathering?” his supervising surgeon came up from behind.  
“Sorry, sir, just putting these away, and I'll be right there.”  
And with a shake of his head, Georgie went quickly back to business.  
There was a war on, after all.

\---

Meanwhile in the mountains of Italy, an English soldier was trying to stay moving and alive until he could reach the English lines.  
The sun was shining, but its rays were thin and weak against the chill of the air.  
Ice dripped a bit of cold melting water, and the snow merely packed more solidly down.  
It was hard to stay on his feet amidst such conditions, but he was determined.  
No one was capturing him again.

Clark had been made a POW fairly early on in things, kept prisoner by the Italians.  
When that country had made an agreement with the British, there was a brief period in which the guard was dropped, and Clark and two chums had made their escape.

 

He had been ordered not to, truly.  
They'd broadcast the code from Mother England to wait where they were, expecting the British would move up through the countryside quickly and not wanting there to be confusion as the men emptied out of the camps.  
“Good thing we did, though, right?”  
Clark looked down at his friend, the only one of the two still with him. 

The Germans had come roaring in, not only marching the POW's who'd stayed back to the north, but also making it difficult for anyone in the countryside to move.  
The man next to him groaned slightly.  
Bullets, malnutrition—both were fairly equal enemies now.  
“Good things are coming, old man. We'll find our lads soon and get behind the line where it's safe.  
I promise you that.”

But, of course, he'd promised the third man of their trio the same thing.  
The other man whose body now was buried in a shallow grave in a forest, next to where they'd slept rough last night.  
He'd need to write that man's mother, Daniel Clark knew, but first he had to get home.


	83. Chapter 83

-  
-  
-

The cold, grey days of winter were upon them.   
Lady Mary stood staring out the window at what was currently their lawn.  
They'd been notified this morning that soldiers would use it as a temporary bivoac as they moved the men about for training from now until late spring.   
(They had so many soldiers being prepared now that they were sleeping on the lawns of great houses, Mary thought. Surely that large of a push would finish the task at hand.)

At least they weren't like Rounton Grange, forced to take Italian prisoners, but then the army could requisition whatever and however it liked.

 

“My lady, Mrs. Moseley thought you might like some tea,” Barrow said, bringing the tray and waiting.  
She continued to frown out the windows, saying nothing.  
“It's been a trying time this morning,” he ventured. 

Barrow can be impertinent, can't he? Mary thought, but then there were too many casual impertinences now between them for her to really mind.  
Each had built on their previous understandings of one another until the relationship had become quite solid and whole.

 

“Thank you, Barrow. That was thoughtful of her. It IS a bit chilly and wet today.”  
She moved from the window to take a seat by the fire. Tea and a fire might just warm her up.  
They'd just close the draperies and not think on it at all.  
And the rest of it was truly Anna's concern, more than hers.   
Mary didn't know why it had her so suddenly off.

 

“Has anyone checked on Anna since this morning? When Mrs. Moseley came to dress me, she told me about young John being called up.”  
Mrs. Moseley had told her and her mother.   
Bates had told Lord Grantham.  
And they had agreed over breakfast that, even though such things were to be expected, it was still quite sad.  
(Each of the older generation remembering very clearly Johnny's birth.)

 

She looked at Barrow who stood as though he were weighing his words.  
“Anna?” she prompted.

“Master Edward did that, my lady. I assumed you knew he and Clarence had gone back down the path.”  
Clarey and Edward.   
Her kind, quiet child and his sometimes exasperating friend. Of course.  
“Yes, of course. I misspoke. Edward will have it well in hand.”

 

Anna would be helping John pack.   
Lady Mary hadn't done that with Georgie, of course, but she remembered the drawn out process where she had just wanted to lock the door and keep him home.  
Called up early from university. It still rankled her, even though nothing happened in those months.  
“Do we know where he's headed? Bates must have told papa, but I didn't ask.”

“East Anglia, my lady. Which is what I thought...” Barrow paused, waiting for leave.   
Mary rolled her eyes.   
“Which you thought....” she repeated. 

 

“If he's to report to Sudbury, chances are he'll be somewhere near Andrew Parker, my lady.”  
She nodded.   
“But near isn't by his side, you know,” the butler continued.  
“Mrs. Parker's husband is a seasoned soldier now and has a friendship with the officers. It wouldn't shelter Johnny entirely, but it might be of some help if he were actually assigned WITH Andrew, not merely nearby.”  
(It would help them both, Barrow thought, not one to waste favors on small gains.)

 

She waited, letting the silence grow between them a moment.   
Fire popped. The clock ticked. And outside a bit of sleet began to hit the windows.  
“You think there might be a way to arrange this? I don't have much luck with the army.”

“Daisy...I mean, Mrs. Parker telephoned her husband, and he's working on it from his end.  
But a call from someone of your position might make the move easier.”  
He came again to warm her tea.  
“It's not keeping him out of the army or even changing his orders. Just his assignment of tasks day to day.”

 

Mary nodded.  
She'd try to help Anna if she could, certainly.  
“Does Mrs. Parker have any suggested names of whom to call?”  
Her voice was beginning to hold just the slightest edge of amusement.   
Trust Barrow to hatch a plan.

 

“I'll go down and ask for It now if you'd like.”  
She raised an eyebrow, surprised he couldn't pull it straight out of his pocket, but then perhaps this was his idea of restraint.   
“Yes, thank you, Barrow. And some scones as well, if there are any. I didn't eat anything much at breakfast, but I'm feeling a bit peckish now.”

\---

“The King's gone daft, that's the only explanation for it. Mixing eighteen year olds in with grown men.”  
Anna whipped from one side of the room to the other, slamming drawers and packing the small satchel with a force that the clothing didn't deserve.  
(And, yet, still neat and tidy. Years of folding and packing made her work neat and tidy no matter how angry or rushed.)

 

“Mum, you shouldn't say such things about the King,” Clarey laughed, the Bates family proud supporters of His Majesty.  
Still, he was the child most like his mother and understood her temper.  
It was a bad thing that was happening, even if they'd seen it for miles off.  
The only difference was that Johnny would follow the tanks in and do the clean up in captured towns, rather than file papers in an office here at home. 

“I hope he's not gone daft. He and those generals had better have some clever plan, after all.”  
Johnny came and forcibly put his arms around his mother. Held her still.  
(Taller than me, and broad shouldered as his father, she thought.)  
“I'll be fine amongst the other soldiers. They've enough experience to keep things straight, and I'll just do what I'm told.”

 

A rattle and clatter in the outer room caught their attention then.  
Anna frowned and looked at her younger son.  
“You dragged her ladyship's son out of his lessons for this, and you shouldn't've done.  
“And you should have stayed yourself.”

 

Clarey grinned at her, cheeky.   
“For once, he suggested the outing. But I'll check to see what he's doing....”  
but as he reached the door, it pushed open and Edward's shock of dark hair popped through.  
“I've made tea,” young Talbot said. “But I didn't want to pillage your cupboard any further. Tea with sugar, though, Mrs. Bates?  
“Every time I'm feeling unwell one of you gives me tea with sugar, you know.”

 

The green eyes were soft and sympathetic, and Anna felt her own eyes puddle up.  
“Now, however would a young boy like you know how to make a decent cuppa?” she said, half scolding.  
Behind her back Clarey and John rolled their eyes and smiled.  
“You shouldn't be trying that.”

And out Anna went, distracted by the new task.  
Though they could hear Edward explaining calmly that he'd certainly been in the kitchen enough times to have watched the process carefully.   
And he'd never have tried it if he would turn her precious tea into something bitter.  
He was quite sure it would be right.

 

“I don't want you to go, either you know,” Clarey said to his older brother. 

“Necessary, in't it?” Johnny said back. “Though I did hope they'd have it done.”  
The boys moved to the door.   
“Let's go save Edward from mum, and then sometime I'll have to say goodbye to Violet, too.”

“She won't be pleased,” Clarey said sympathetically. He'd grown quite fond of Violet, but she could be a handful to manage.  
“She's my friend. Of course she won't.”

\---

“I am NOT pleased,” Violet said emphatically as they sat in the darkened tower that evening.  
John huffed out a deep chuckle.  
“Didn't think you would be.”

They'd sat here so many nights already.  
His family had wanted him resting at home before leaving the next morning, but Johnny couldn't imagine any spot he needed to be but here.  
Watching the skies.

 

“I should be happy you're going over. You have enough good sense to make things a success.”  
She said it gamely enough, but her tone was sad.  
Violet Talbot wouldn't ever admit to being sad of course.  
Her breath came out rather shakily, though. 

How many conversations make up a friendship?  
How many get you to such a place that you were so close you could read another person's mind?  
“I know you didn't like to be up here by yourself when I was ill. So I thought maybe Clarey could sit here instead.”  
John handed her half of a biscuit he'd filched out of the bag.

 

“Clarey. Phht.”  
Violet liked Clarey by now, but he wasn't the sort she'd classify as 'friend.'  
She couldn't quite control the boy and it was irritating.

“We Bates men always fulfill our duties, you know. Even Clarey. Let him help.”  
Johnny munched the biscuit reflectively.   
“Don't know where in France we'll end up, but they've certainly taken their time with the plans.”

 

“Well planned is well done,” Violet remarked, and was proud her voice came out evenly.  
And she was glad that Johnny would be part of this landing at least, rather than at the bottom of things where it still seemed so dreadfully ad lib.  
“I just wish it was in the overall command of the English, though. I still don't know enough about this Eisenhower, even if the papers paint it all a rosy glow.”

 

“Mmmm...” Johnny nodded.  
“Best they've got. And they're adding their own men in by droves, so there's as much for them to lose as us.”

“Not quite,” Violet said with finality.  
“And I'm not happy they can't keep you back over here on the home front.  
I am truly NOT pleased with that.”

 

Johnny huffed out a laugh again and nudged her with his shoulder, cajoling.  
“I'll be fine, MISS Violet. Just because you're not there to fight beside me, don't hold it against the generals.  
I'll be fine. You'll see.”  
And she nodded back, trying to keep her chin high.   
“Of course you will. You'll set them straight and win the war soonest of all.”

But she gave a suspicious sniff and dashed at her face when he was turned away from her.   
I won't cry, Violet thought. I never do.  
(But she was anyway, she feared.)


	84. Chapter 84

-  
-  
-  
So there were 'goings' at the Abbey,   
but there were 'comings,' too.  
A great lot of visitors seemed to come with the snows that winter.

 

“If they couldn't visit for the christening, do they really need to visit now?”   
Lady Mary took a savage bite of her toast.  
They were the last two left at breakfast, she and Tom, so she didn't feel the need to dissemble.  
“I'm glad to see all the rest of them, you know, but Edith is....”   
Words failed her and she simply rolled her eyes.

 

Tom put down his paper and nodded.   
“I did think the two of you would mellow as time went on, but it hasn't happened yet.”  
He chuckled.   
“And Marigold is as different from Sybbie as oil and water.” He paused and took a sip of tea.   
“Not that I don't love my niece.”

Mary nodded; she was fond of Marigold, too.  
The girl had spark.  
And that was really why they were making a visit now, what with Marigold home on leave.   
(How odd to think of Marigold needing leave.)

 

Mary touched the napkin to her lips before she threw it down.  
“Edith has always enjoyed playing the 'fond auntie.'” she said, just a touch snidely.  
“I guess we can't stop her from coming for that, even if it's Great auntie now.”

“Exactly,” Tom said, smiling, glad she'd come to her senses on her own.  
(Mary had come to her senses on many things, he thought, though in others she was very much still the same girl who he'd driven around in the back of the Crawley motor car.)  
“And speaking of fond aunts, would you like to join me on my trip to Thirsk and see if we can find something to spoil my granddaughter?”

 

“Hmmm...” smiled Mary. She did have the advantage in spoiling the child, and it was, after all, her   
namesake.  
Let Edith mull on that.  
“Let's go to York,” Mary answered decisively.   
“They've nicer things, and then you can buy me lunch.”

Tom nodded again, agreeable.  
“I'll go up and make our goodbyes, and we can make a day of it.”  
It would be good to be out and about, distracting themselves, on such a dreary day.

\---

“Thank you so much for asking me,” Rose Aldridge said, kissing both of Cora's cheeks.   
They were alone for the moment, with Rose just arriving and Barrow gone for tea.

“You're always welcome, darling,” Cora replied. “I simply didn't know if you'd want to make the trip.”  
She'd made a point of keeping up with Rose; both she and Robert.  
The loss of Atticus had been a terrible one, and even with the passage of well over a year, it still felt fresh.

At least she's not in dark clothes any more, Cora thought. Pale shades suit her better.

 

“I thought Father Sinderby would lock me up and not let me leave at all, but here I am,” Rose smiled.   
“And everything is going well there?” Cora ventured.   
“Very well,” Rose assured her. “But he is who he is.  
“And who he is...is a very protective and traditional man, who doesn't like the idea of women gadding about alone on trains.”  
The last phrase came out in a different tone as she tried to mimic her father in law. 

 

Rose still was sad, of course. She'd be sad the rest of her life, probably.   
But she wasn't the type to wrap herself in crepe and die with her husband, no matter how much she mourned inside.  
Life was too full, and the children had acted as a tonic.   
(Mothers were too busy with daily disasters to allow themselves the luxury of their own grief.)

“But here I am, having gadded.”

“And very glad of it, we are,” Cora assured her, leading into the library where they'd find Robert and tea.

\---

“Golly. I didn't know that many soldiers could fit in a tea shop,” Edith commented.  
They'd felt it acceptable to avoid the train and take a car for the journey.  
Petrol was severely limited, of course, but it wasn't such a horribly long drive, and there were five of them in the car, so no one could think it a waste. 

 

“My countrymen are everywhere,” chuckled Abe Baldwin.  
The Americans had invaded the last tea shop in the same enthusiastic manner with which they did everything, making themselves comfortable in a way that astonished the English.   
Abe still found it amusing that there was such a basic feeling of Difference about their two people when he'd been raised to think there wasn't much difference at all.

“The RAF officers aren't so happy about it,” Marigold reminded him.  
The Yanks were free with their money and their affections, which had left some of the men complaining that their girls were being stolen with Hollywood ways.

“Well, they have been fighting longer,” Abe allowed. “So I can see why they might be put out by a bunch of Johnny Upstarts.   
“Still, it's the US who'll help win the war.”

 

From a corner of the backseat, young Robert made a bit of a derisive sound.   
“You've quantity. We've quality. It's going to take them both to win the war, but I'd still say quality is the trait that most counts.”

Abe grinned. It was a familiar argument between them.  
“Now you see, Americans have a different experience,” he reminded the boy.  
“Your best generals lost to our rabble in the Revolution. In our Civil War, it came down to factories and immigrant soldiers over Cleverness and honor.  
“But, as you said, it'll take both this time to win it. So it's a good thing we're both together in the fight.”

 

In the front seat, Edith risked a glance at Bertie.   
Their son really had taken a disliking to Marigold's fiance, but so far it had done little to cause problems.  
Edith, of course, worried that it might some time, but her husband had reassured her such a thing was years and years down the road, if ever it came up at all. 

\---

“You'll remember my friend's son, Daniel. Daniel Clark?”  
Rose looked over at Robert carefully to see if he remembered the circumstances of the young man's situation, and waited for his nod to continue.   
They were sitting near the fire in a well lit room that smelled of greenhouse flowers.   
(It's so unchanging in these rooms, Rose thought.)

She gathered herself to speak.  
“Well, he was captured quite early on and in one of those dreadful Italian camps for prisoners of war.  
And they've had some sort of trouble getting out. Father Sinderby is quite upset.”

 

“Isn't it nice that he's helping your friend,” Cora murmured.  
Rose looked at her and nodded, but said didn't reveal the secret any further to the woman, even loving her as she did.  
“He is, helping that is,” Rose said hurriedly. “But it's been months, any we've only just got word where ...my friend's son is.   
“He's in one of our army's field hospitals, but he really should be coming home.”

Rose had come not just to admire the baby, but also to seek Robert's help.

 

“That sort of thing would be up to the doctors and his officers,” Lord Grantham suggested, quite sensibly.  
Rose's pleading eyes had their effect, though.  
The old earl rose to the challenge once more.  
“Perhaps I could make some calls.”

“Oh, would you be a dear and do that? It would be so lovely of you,” the woman (girl) gushed.  
“Father Sinderby has, of course, but it wouldn't hurt to try again. And everything over there is such a worry, knowing he's ill as we do.”

\---

“Edith is going to be very put out, you know, with you filling the baby's room with all of this.”  
Tom was both surprised and not surprised.   
It wasn't like Mary to be wasteful, and yet it was very much like Mary to be competitive.  
And she did enjoy that the baby was named after her...once the initial shock had worn off.

 

“I know,” Mary smirked. (Edith would be, indeed.)  
What was life without a bit of a splurge once in a while, once you found a shop without empty shelves.  
Why, everyone seemed to think she didn't like babies.  
She loved babies.   
She just had troubles after she was delivered of her own.

But she'd loved playing with Sybbie as a newborn,  
and she enjoyed tiny Mary Margaret.  
(Both of them would make the house proud. Then, again, wouldn't all the children?)

 

“Sybbie will probably want to keep that one plush bear for herself,” Tom grinned.   
“It's almost like the one Georgie massacred when she was around six.”

Mary gave a sentimental smile to Tom, well remembering her son's first 'surgery' on the toy.  
“They do grow up so quickly,” she said, having the distinct image of a small George Crawley come to mind.

\---

“It's like nothing ever changes,” Edith remarked as they drove up the lane to the Abbey.  
The house stood, a sienna and dark grey structure against a lighter grey sky.  
Snow was coming down more briskly now, blurring the lines. 

“Everything changes, mama. Really,” Marigold half scoffed, half teased her.

And as Barrow came to usher them in, Edith looked at him, then up at her childhood home, then at her mother coming out the front door.   
It was all so familiar, and yet, Marigold was correct. Everything was changed.


	85. Chapter 85

-  
-  
-

The Earl of Grantham looked around the table proudly.  
Of course, he missed George sorely, and Atticus, but it was still a wonderful gathering of his favorite people.  
His daughters. His granddaughters. His grandsons.  
And amid the spouses was his own lovely wife. 

How beautiful Cora looks tonight, the earl thought warmly.  
And he felt himself a fortunate man, indeed.

 

Seeing Robert smile, Cora smiled back at him, but continued to talk to Bertie,  
keeping Edith's husband comfortably going on about making portions of Brancaster permanently a school after the war.  
(“I think it's been a wonderful thing, these girls we've taken in. It's truly given us a sense of purpose.”  
“The hospital does that for me. I certainly could understand if that's what you'd like.”)

 

Robert ate and listened as the gentle murmur of voices ebbed and flowed around him.  
An excellent meal, progressing the way meals had for decades and decades past.  
He nodded to himself as Rose used her guileless look to finally peg down what Edith most needed to know from her daughter's fiance.  
(“My husband and I lived in New York for a while, back when we were first married.  
Are you two going there after the war?”  
“No we'll stay here, we think. Mother's in an uproar, but there's business to be done, things to be rebuilt...so, here.  
Whenever I get her to set the date.”)

Laughter.  
It was such a pleasant sound to the old earl.

The smell of beeswax and the flicker of candlelight.  
And the gentle music of laughter which continued as Sybbie and Marigold talked.  
(“It must be exciting to go from base to base in airplanes.”  
“It's absolutely wonderful soaring through the clouds. But, then again, I'd love to have a baby like yours one day.”)

 

Robert smiled.  
They were so different those two. And yet he loved them both.  
It was a sad time in the world, what with this war, but tonight he couldn't be anything but glad.

“Perhaps it's time we go through?” Cora started to suggest when  
the putt, putt, putt of a motor bike cut through the sounds of the night.

 

Everyone knew the sound, of course, and dreaded it.  
Back in the day, telegrams had come by bicycle.  
Now, the telegraph messenger boys had been kitted out with motorbikes, since they sometimes had so many messages to take. 

Cora caught Barrow's eye.  
“We'll go through, Barrow, and serve ourselves drinks while you go see to things.”  
And, glancing at Sybbie, they rose...knowing they all had a role to play.

\---

Meanwhile downstairs,  
everyone was moving slowly, feeling a bit off from the demands of extra guests, even though it was simply extended family.  
And, of course, there was the weight of the war.  
Though no major battle currently had them worried,  
they worried none the less.

 

The messenger's motorbike had rounded the corner to the servant's door, as was right.  
And the sound of it froze the few occupants of the servants hall in their tracks. 

Of course, the bash and clang of the kitchen kept going, heedless.  
Service upstairs might be ending, but the kitchen still had downstairs dinner to do along with the clean up.  
Nothing got past the wall of sound to there.

“I'll go,” Phyllis said, moving in front of Anna, who had grabbed the edge of a chair and sat down abruptly.  
They three were in the hall already, waiting for the rest.  
“It won't be him,” John told his wife firmly as the housekeeper passed by.  
(How could it be? He thought. The boy was just left for training not that long ago.)

\---

Barrow managed to make it to the foot of the stairs as the housekeeper entered the end of the hall ahead.  
“Phyllis,” he called, just her name to make her turn.  
Then after risking a glance at kitchen door, he strode toward her. 

Of all the men, Daniel was the most likely one to be injured.  
However, Andy or the others could have had problems as they trained nearer home.  
The knock came as he was half way to her, and she waited.  
Both of them, then to the door.

 

“Telegram,” the boy said, another sad evening for a youngster as experienced as any veteran in knowing what he was delivering.  
Barrow swallowed and took the white envelope marked with a cross.  
Giving a bit of a gasp of relief when he saw the name on the outside,  
feeling then a twinge of guilt mixing with the relief.

“No return message,” he said automatically.  
“But we have tea, if you'd like it,” Phyllis added, knowing the boy to be one of Moseley's students.  
“Hmm.. yes, tea if you'd like it,” Thomas parroted, turning, holding the thing with his fingertips.

 

As the boy went by, Thomas murmured....  
“Ann.”  
Phyllis gasped.  
“Not Anna. Ann.”  
The housekeeper nodded, but still looked sad.

 

“I'll go tell Anna," she said. "Then perhaps I should go and let her ladyship know, to take the worry off Miss Sybil's mind.”  
“I'm here.”  
The girl was coming from the stairs toward them. Had barely taken the time to make any sort of proper exit before tearing after the butler.  
(Damn playing the proper role. She couldn't wait.)

“Miss Sybil. It's not for you.”  
Barrow reached a hand out, afraid she might fall, but she reacted as he had—a bit of a gasp, a heavy breath, and a nod.  
“Right. I'll go back up and tell the others, then.”  
She hesitated, “May I ask who?”

 

“Ann.”  
“Oh.” And Sybbie's eyes filled with sympathy, thinking about the little boy who would be without his father.  
“You'll be busy, then, and we'll be fine without any help.  
I'll go up and sit in the nursery for a while, after I tell daddy,  
so that someone's there when she needs help.”

\---

“Let's go for a bit into the office and have a word, shall we?”  
Barrow meant it to be thoughtful, but the woman startled and looked even more worried at that.

“Dinner will be made late for the others," Ann said, looking over her shoulder as though wanting to move away.  
She already has such desolate eyes, Thomas thought.  
And he gave her what he'd practiced over the years as a 'kind' look. (It could still, even now, come out wrong.)

“That's not something to worry about now.  
"Let's just go in and have a word."  
And he gently took her arm and led her through the door.

\----

When Barrow finally had Ann calmed and up in her room again, he joined the others at table.  
The news of the death was, of course, already shared and taken as a shock.  
Daisy'd made a tray which she now sent up for the woman, and they debated briefly who might want to go up later and see her.  
When. How. What to say.

The talk became quieter, their thoughts taking over.  
Anna, especially, looked positively grey. (Even with Johnny moved in the same unit as Andy, she was still very much afraid. )

 

And it wasn't until the pudding that talk began to revive again,  
to provide a Distraction if nothing else. 

Daisy'd heard from Andy by letter, and had news that he'd been standing 'close enough to touch' the King when he'd inspected their men.  
“A February snowstorm, it was, and he still walked out and looked at them personally,” Daisy marveled, not trying to brag, but wanting them to find the comfort she had that the King cared for the men.  
“Andy said he looked quite trim and wonderful. It made him proud, it did, to see the man in the flesh.”

 

And the thought brightened the table somewhat, since the King had done his duty both stepping in for his brother and in leading them through battle.  
They admired the man, they did. (Any random criticisms not withstanding.)  
If he was looking over things personally, more the better.

Since with the news of Ann's husband, they were again reminded  
what it meant to be back in the fight.


	86. Chapter 86

(Note: time jump, unspecified.)

-  
-  
-

 

Clark still had trouble walking.  
He was so emaciated from the long trek out from the camp that his bones showed through his skin.  
The doctors had tried not to look astonished, and then gave up on it.  
It was a miracle the man had lived. 

 

Two men. He'd brought his mate with him, like a hero.  
Clark wondered if his father would be proud of him for that.  
(All the way back at the beginning of things, the Lieutenant had told him his father had kicked him out. Wonder if that's why he'd tried so hard to save the man?)

Clark knew who his father was, of course. His mum'd told him, warning him that Lord Sinderby couldn't acknowledge him publicly, but telling him that the man had always looked out to arrange things to his son's advantage when he could. 

 

“Some advantage. Being made an officer didn't keep me out of much trouble, now did it?”  
Clark managed to hobble his way to the deck and slump down on the lid of a hatch.

He pulled a pack of Craven A's out with shaking fingers, managed in three tries to light a match.  
“Well, daddy, you've got me coming home.”

 

The hospital had intended to keep him.  
The officers had viewed him as a source of intelligence, personal intelligence since he'd walked his way around most of the Germans soon to be in their way.  
And Clark had given them as many numbers and positions as he could, between trying to get some food to stay down. (How can you be starving and still your body rejects food when it goes in?)

 

“And do you really think that's a good idea?”  
Hearing her voice, Daniel Clark smiled.  
Sally, one of the nurses, still could talk normally to him. Didn't see him as a walking skeleton.  
“What? You'd deny a poor man a smoke?”

“I would if it might kill him,” she groused.  
But then, “give me one, too.”  
He chuckled.  
(And not much could make him laugh as tired as he was.  
His back ached with the effort of just sitting up.)

 

“Here. I'll let you light your own, just to save us an hour.”  
The flame flared, showing a very pretty face, red lips, brown eyes.  
She took a long drag and then exhaled out a plume of smoke, sighing in pleasure.  
“It's good to get off my feet. If the matron comes to tick me off, you'll cover, right?”  
She grinned at him.

The woman had been sneaking him bits of food, had been bringing him whatever odd bit of news she thought would interest him, had talked to him like a human being.  
Yes, he would cover for her, easily, without her even asking.  
Yet,  
“Depends,” he said nonchalantly.

 

She laughed.  
There you go, she thought. That's got some spunk.  
And they sat there for a while watching the waves and thinking of how soon it would be before they got home. 

\---

Johnny Bates sat watching the sun set and wondered how many days, how many months....perhaps how many years it would be before he got home.  
It was an odd sort of thing for him to be in the army. 

First it surprised him that not all of the experienced soldiers were honored to have been called back to take the lead in this.  
“We're happy to be coming home,” one of the privates, Worthington, had told him.  
“But we aren't very happy being used as the attacking troops on this second front.”  
The only satisfaction the man expressed was that at least Monty'd asked for them.

 

Andy Parker, of course, tried to give him a more cheerful view, saying that the men's experience would help speed things up to the end.  
(He didn't always believe his false cheer, but he tried it, not wanting to let Anna's boy down.)

We've got them on the run, he'd tell Johnny, and the boy tried to think it possible.  
But while standing near Parker, he'd heard one of the battalion officers Bitterly refer to his new replacement troops as “discards of regiments that have been training for years in England.”

 

So it looked like the veterans both needed more rest, and that they didn't respect the men with whom they were now to be fighting.  
John wondered how these were the valiant heroes they'd seen on the newsreels.  
He'd expected something different,  
different than real men with complicated feelings about killing,  
having done it so much.

 

He stared at the horizon until the sunset came over completely into dusk.  
The stars began to come out and he automatically scanned the skies, noting airplanes as they flew overhead.  
“All ours,” he said quietly.

Then he uncurled his legs and got up to go in, to where he'd sleep on an uncomfortable bunk, in the midst of snoring, restless men.  
Some of whom had nightmares that they were all apparently to ignore.

“I wonder how long,” Johnny muttered, but then why wonder about something about which no one could possibly know.

\---  
Next to Clark, the Lieutenant began to thrash about in a nightmare.  
They'd been together all the way since the prison camp, and he felt responsible for the man, but no one could make nightmares go away.  
“Don't,” he'd cry.  
“No, don't.”

Nothing else.  
Clark hadn't heard the man speak for months now, at least in daylight.  
No one could possibly know why.  
When they were in the camp, he'd managed, but something seemed to have made him quiet during the escape.  
Probably it was the need for stealth becoming too ingrained.  
At least that was what Clark thought.

 

But why not now?  
The words just hadn't started up again.  
Except in his nightmares.  
“Don't,” he'd cry.  
“No, don't.”  
Sometimes.  
“Please,” and a moan.

“We'll have to get you talking before we get home, mate,” Clark said softly, trying to  
nudge the man back into a more peaceful sleep by rubbing his shoulder in the dark.  
“You'll see. Remember? I promised I'd get you home.”


	87. Chapter 87

-  
-  
-

 

Just as they'd been warned so long ago, a temporary bivouac came to Downton Abbey.

(“We should've been in the clear by now,” Mary thought, irritated.  
Then even more irritated, banished Charles Blake's face from her mind.)  
The soldiers came in huge vehicles, setting up formations on the lawns,  
knocking through fields where crops usually grew, churning up paths and roadways, making them almost impassible. 

Lady Mary might try to leave the draperies drawn and ignore the tumult, but it  
was constantly within earshot none the less. 

 

Lord Grantham grumbled doubly so about the inconvenience to his dog.  
“These soldiers lack any sort of feelings of common decency,” he'd gritted out, before retiring to the library in a snit.  
For Apepi now couldn't go out without an escort. And on a lead.  
(Really, one bite....and the soldier was at fault for trying to pet the dear thing, without properly approaching first!)

So his lovely pup followed him around the house.  
And Sybbie's two rascals followed her around the house.  
Which made quite a bit of dog hair floating about...  
making Mary sneeze. 

 

“I've gone from detesting the war to being positively allergic to it,” she said wryly, wiping the end of her red nose with a delicate, lace trimmed handkerchief.  
(It was unladylike to sniffle anyway. She felt very out of sorts.)

 

“Any news?” Tom replied, knowing well enough to keep to short questions,  
since comments or attempts at humor would simply get him a ticking off.  
“Georgie says things are about the same down there.  
Mama's friend visited and he was on about it somewhat, so I'll have to ask her to refrain.”

Branson nodded.  
George, for all his affability, didn't like being maneuvered any more than Mary did.  
“He'll get there soon enough on his own.”

“Hmmm...” Mary nodded, agreeing, trying not to sneeze.  
“Violet didn't fancy the latest offering either, so Instead of us having several households of married children ignoring us,  
we might be living here with them single until we All die of old age.”

 

Tom laughed at the image in his head, but reined in in.  
It was hard enough to think that he and Mary were grandparents. Well, that he was a grandparent, rather.  
“Violet always would have been a difficult match, but Georgie will marry as soon as he's ready.  
He's the type.”

Again Mary nodded.  
(Her throat felt miserably scratchy. Damn these soldiers!)  
She knew George might have delayed things for school and then war, but he WAS the type to marry.  
To settle down and have children and guard the tradition.  
In spite of everything, they'd managed to raise him perfectly right. 

 

“Be a dear and ring for some tea, will you Tom?”  
There was a rumpus outside and she felt as though her head would split.  
“Perhaps we can go back to the music room corner, where it's a bit away from the fray?”

\---

The boys were back in the greenhouse, having explored the encampment thoroughly and questioned a good many of the soldiers therein.

“Do you think your mama's holding steady, then?” Edward asked Clarey as they piddled around the pots.  
He was more worried about Mrs. Bates than Mr. Bates, though of course he knew Clarey's father felt things deeply, too.  
“She'll be fine as long as he doesn't get hurt. Or at least as long as he doesn't get hurt too badly, touch wood.”  
And Clarey did so, reflexively, hoping that he hadn't doomed John to some bump or bang by saying such a thing aloud.  
They continued in silence a while, all the glorious smells of fresh young seedlings giving them comfort.

 

“Sybbie said the letters from Daniel are mainly about drills and training,” Edward said, trying for reassurance.  
“Sicily is still not entirely peaceable, but it's been occupied long enough until the battles are all done.”  
“They keep saying they'll send them to Italy, then delaying sending them. Though they've talked to men coming through on the way back.”

Clarey made a derisive sound.  
“The army.”  
Edward nodded. “That batch outside had better become more organized and quickly or when they go over, the panzers'll knock them flat.”  
He regretted the offhand comment immediately.  
How many times, though, had the two friends shared that sort of critique?  
They'd seen the newsreels and, without having access to actual books on the war, had gone to the shelves and begun reading battle strategies from the Romans. (Inadvertently reading many of the same things the military types had, back when they studied theories and tactics, back when they had time.)

 

However, Edward needn't have worried about his blunder.  
“If I were in in charge...” Clarey started.  
And in the dirt of the potting bench, he drew the map of northern France, committed to both their memories, explaining which divisions and equipment he'd place where as he tried to take the coast.  
Edward nodded and let his friend go rambling on, grateful.

 

He, himself, was finishing showering some of the green things with just the finest mist of water.  
Neither he nor Sam knew where (or if) they'd manage to plant anything, but they'd try to crowd things in where they could, bivouac or not. 

And as the minutes passed, those were the sorts of maps forming themselves in Edward's mind,  
landscaping maps which overrode those of battle.  
For looking out at the invading army in the Downton front lawn, Edward felt he had a quiet battle of his own. 

\---

Meanwhile upstairs in her room, another Talbot was feeling out of sorts.  
Violet was desolate, and she despised herself for it.  
She didn't love Johnny Bates. She simply didn't.  
She'd kept quite clear of such an entanglement, knowing that her course was set for different things.

But she was on the edge of it.  
Her friendship with him had put her on the edge of loving him.  
And now he was down training and she was worried for him.

 

I'll have to put a stop to this, she thought.  
I'll have to find someone to set my cap for and marry. Not this year or next, assuredly.  
But I must needs find Someone to set my sights on after the war.

For she now realized if she didn't, she might go down the wrong path like Sybbie.  
And she was absolutely certain she couldn't do that.

\---

And, of course, work was continuing in the kitchen, though not as usually done. 

“It reminds me of when we had the hospital, it does,” Daisy said with just a touch of a grin.  
They'd invaded her domain with helpers, Outdoor bivouac or not.  
Assuredly, the upstairs wasn't being inconvenienced, but the bang and the clatter for the staff downstairs had the Beecham's powders flowing.

“Do they know what they're doing? Surely our helpers last time weren't as disorganized as all that.”  
Thomas stood next to her, and behind them Phyllis,  
peering in to what looked like bedlam, and would remain bedlam for another hour  
until it abruptly stopped.  
Daisy looked at him from the side of her eyes and barely kept down a retort.  
(For he and his men had been worse.)

 

“I tried to help, I really did, but the head man doesn't seem much to like women.”  
Thomas snorted.  
“No, not like that. He didn't appreciate help from women in 'his' kitchen. So I left him to it.  
Mrs. Patmore would have shouted him down, but the way I figured it, I'll let him have his play party and make his messes....as long as he cleans them up.”

Phyllis nodded.  
“At least they're generous, sharing their rations, these Americans.”  
They stood there salivating slightly at the aromas now issuing into the hall.  
However,  
“Rations brought over by our merchant navy,” grumbled Barrow. “Orange juice flowing like water, when our ships could be put to better use.”

 

Thomas pressed his lips together, frustrated.  
If they were ordinary men or even noble ones, he'd hatch a plan to see them ousted.  
But the army? He'd barely won his last bout with His Majesty's army, and these were a completely different sort.

“And one of them called me 'pops,'” he said Darkly.  
Phyllis bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at his tone. (Those boys had better watch out!)  
Then, turning, the three friends went nattering down the hall, intent on getting something done in spite of the chaos around.

\---

And in a completely different corner of the land,  
there was Marigold.

Having just completed her run to the south,  
standing alone from any family,  
Marigold looked around her at all of the men making their hasty goodbyes,  
all the women holding on to their lovers like they were the last best anchor in a chaotic world.

Living as much as they could 'before the invasion' or 'before the second front starts.'  
There was an air of urgency in everyone.

 

And Marigold finally felt it was time.  
So she telephoned home....not to her parent's home, but to the home that would soon be hers  
Permanently.  
“What do you think about a registry wedding?”  
she asked Abe Baldwin when he picked up the line.


	88. Chapter 88

-  
-  
-  
Bertie Pelham entered the green drawing room, practically lighting the place with his smile.  
Edith rose up to meet him, smiling herself without even knowing the cause.  
“That daughter of ours,” Bertie said.  
He gripped hold of her arms and smiled wider, though he also started to blub a bit.  
“That daughter of ours has gone and got married.”

 

“What?” Edith said, her legs suddenly giving. Sitting down with a rush.  
Bertie joined her, moving his arms to encircle her more fully now.  
“No, no, it's a wonderful thing. And not nearly as mad or sudden as it sounds.”  
He paused for a moment and ran one hand over his eyes, clearing them, before replacing it around his darling wife.  
Still grinning, still chuckling softly, still wanting to cry.

“She couldn't get leave enough to come home, so Marigold and Abe went to the registry on her luncheon today and took care of the matter. Without asking the officer's permission at all.”  
(Edith rolled her eyes, believing the last.)  
“And she's requested to transfer from Air Transport Auxiliary back to one base. Put the paperwork in to process.”

 

“Slowly, no doubt,” the marchioness said cynically.  
“No doubt. But it will happen,” Bertie said, grinning rather foolishly still.  
“And even if it takes months and months.....even if the whole war ends before they manage it.....  
She's DECIDED, Edith. She decided it was time to take the step.  
“Which means she's finally past all her doubts.”

 

His wife's breath stuttered, then, realizing the truth of it.

“And...” here Bertie could barely get out the words. “She said....”  
Edith raised her eyes concerned, and yet he was still smiling.  
“She said to me that her main regret about going without the fanfare, was...”  
His tears began to overflow in spite of his smile.  
“...was that she didn't get to have me walk her down the aisle. She'd wanted so long to have her FATHER walk her, and was so jealous of Sybbie, and....”

Edith reached up to smooth the tears from his cheeks then.  
Her poor, lovely Bertie.  
“Well, of course she did darling. Of course that would be what she'd miss.”  
And all Edith could do was hold him, and hope that this was the end of the pain  
he'd carried for her.

Of course Bertie was Marigold's father.  
None of the confusion was any part of it his fault.

\---

Sybil Barrow was also proving herself rather independent, deciding that the WVS needed her enough that she'd try to go back—though on slightly altered terms.

Sybbie still went to the WVS, but she carried her tiny bundle along with her.  
Lord Grantham was almost apoplectic the first time, but she'd persisted.  
Others left their children home, which she could have done.  
(Or even tried to get out of it altogether.)

But the baby was quiet, Sybbie had an office, and no one seemed to mind.  
In fact, visits from local donors might have increased, since everyone liked to see the child.  
(As an added bonus, it got her away from the confusion that was their formerly peaceful home.)

 

True, she couldn't run meat pies out to farms herself, or help as much in loading trucks, but then again, she really didn't fully feel like that yet anyway.  
What she could do, she did, and did it well.  
And when Mrs. Lang came by, instead of a scolding, the young women was complimented for books that balanced and plans well laid.  
“I think the baby melted the final ice in her,” Sybil confided to Her Barrow and Daisy later  
before the dressing gong rang.

 

“Watch though,” cautioned Barrow. “Sometimes you think that one's burying the hatchet, when she's only looking to bury it in your back.”  
Daisy'd nodded seriously, though Sybbie thought he'd been making a jest.  
She'd laughed.

“You'll see,” Sybbie said, admonishing them. “No one can withstand MaryMargaret's charms.”  
And since she was holding the wee thing in her arms at the time, neither had any way of  
disputing the truth of that. 

\---

Sybbie had been more in the nursery, of course,  
and she'd managed to spend at least an hour with Ann and Young Thomas each night. 

And though her purpose was to cheer the other woman up, Sybbie found that she enjoyed being  
in the company of another young mother.  
True, Thomas was already walking about and talking clearly—no longer an infant.  
But that just made Ann's advice more valuable for having already figured things out.

And unlike Nanny, she didn't just take the baby and fix things herself when a question was asked.  
She explained things to Sybil, which was much better.  
Since Sybil Barrow fully expected to not have Downton nursery at her disposal the next (few) times she had an infant in her care.

 

Her Barrow would come up frequently to read small Thomas a story.  
And Sybil held the baby and pretended to listen for Her sake, but actually enjoyed the time too, remembering all the years that the stories were for her and Georgie.  
And though Sybbie still reflexively called the butler “Barrow,” she'd begun to refer to him to the baby as “Uncle Thomas” quite naturally.  
(“Oh, look! Your Uncle Thomas is here now!” “Let's go see what Uncle Thomas has.”)

He wasn't the baby's Barrow, after all.  
He was the baby's uncle.  
Surely Barrow would stop smiling each time she said it after a time....sheer numbers spoke in favor of it becoming a pedestrian event.  
Just not quite yet.  
And the fact that it seemed to please him so inordinately, just made Sybil do it more.

\---

Thomas and Sybil weren't the only nursery visitors, mind.  
Edward, though very busy, managed to be by frequently, and Jimmy Kent, of course.  
Jimmy'd been coming by on his days off for months now, starting in the nursery, going to work in the greenhouse as needed, then on to cards.  
On those days, he felt very much at 'home.'

 

Jimmy had taken it upon himself already to spoil young Thomas most foolishly.  
He would bring the child bits and pieces of things he'd found in York, and sing him the latest songs from the shows coming through.  
(Could -”You'll Never Know” be a lullaby? It could when Jimmy Kent had things in hand.)

Now, the man was not as fond of children as Barrow.  
However, something in the story of the lad's delivery had tickled his fancy.  
And the child's name made him wish that he could have been there for the older Thomas, back when he was This age and needed someone kind nearby. 

 

Additionally, there was Ann—who brought out his chivalrous tendencies.  
Raised on stories of damsels in distress, Jimmy would always try to be the hero.  
Even if all the hero had to do to bring a smile to the damsel's face  
was play with one small boy and one clown of a dog.

“I'm glad that you and Mr. Barrow have it worked out for you to stay here,” he'd said a few weeks after she'd had the notification.  
“I told you he'd let you stay.”

She smiled. “And you were right, but how was I to know? I've just pushed in, truly.  
“He didn't have to make it a permanent job.”

 

“But he's Thomas,” Jimmy said, as though that explained everything.  
Seeing her questioning face he added,  
“Mr. Barrow always tries to make sure people who need protection get it. He always tries to be fair.”  
(Kent gave a slight 'oof' as the Boy tackled him, then righted them both after a bit of a scuffle & laughter ensued.)

“It's like that with all of us, isn't it? You try a little harder to help, having felt helpless yourself before?”  
But the thought was too serious for Jimmy, especially with a squirming child still in his arms and a pretty woman to flirt with.  
“I think I've something in my jacket pocket, Tommy. Let's go over to the chair and see what it is.”


	89. Chapter 89

-  
-  
-  
“He needed a place, mum. His father threw him out long ago, and he can't make a living like he is.”  
Clark knew his mother well enough to know she wouldn't throw the Lieutenant out once he'd brought him in.  
Of course that meant coming home without asking first.  
“He's not dangerous or anything for heavens sake. Consider it a mitzvah and let him stay a while.  
“It could have well been me.”

The last was the clinching argument, of course.  
Diana Clark had rarely been able to deny her son anything, and here they were together again after practically a miracle.  
Daniel grinned.  
“And how do I say no to you?” she asked, but she raised an eyebrow, knowing she'd been 'had.'

 

“Have your friend stay in the room next to you, though. You're responsible if he needs something, since he doesn't seem to want to talk much to me.”  
Clark huffed slightly.  
She didn't know how it had been just weeks before when no words at all came out.  
At least the Lieutenant now would force out an answer if pressed. 

 

Not the Lieutenant, Clark reminded himself.  
They weren't in uniform any more, having been demobilized.  
Teddy.  
Teddy Winslow.  
Heir to an old family, whose father hated him.  
But identity didn't matter now. What mattered was that he needed to get the man back up on his feet a bit.  
For having saved him, Clark felt rather compelled to see that he stayed alive.

\---

24 April, 1944

Dear Daisy,  
I keep telling you to believe in the best, and I keep giving Johnny Bates those talks to buck him up.  
But I've been a little shakey on faith myself.  
Well, I've now got a verified miracle to tell you.

You'll know who I talk about when I talk about Teddy, my mate who died whilst on that one desert push.  
Only I've word from a man named Clark what says otherwise. 

Teddy was still carrying my letter to you at Downton all this time later. Carrying it in the shreds of his coat.  
And this Clark fellow opened it, thank heavans, instead of just mailing it, trying to get Teddy talking, it seems.  
(Thought you were his girl, which is quite a laugh, in't it?)

So he got my name and wrote to our compny here.  
Anyway,  
Teddy's alive.  
But he needs help. So if you could, could we find a quiet corner for him at home?  
Maybe with Sam so he can play cards and be with friends?

He's with this other fellow for a while, but he'll need some sort of steady job, and I gather that this Clark's having a hard enough time figuring out what to do, himself.  
Teddy used to be strong enough, if we can get him fed and rested up.  
Even not, he's clever.

It's that shell shock that's got him. And I know from havng been on the edge of it, how hard it can be to keep from going completly over into the deeps.  
Tell me from your end if you can arrange things.....

I know you can.  
Int it wonderful?  
So now when I say that life can always turn a miracle, I guess I'll have to listen to myself. 

Instead of thinking I'm talking daft.  
Love always,  
Your  
Andy

PS: Smash exercises went brillantly. We might make a go of this, after all.

\---

4 May, 1944

Lt. Clark:  
Day pass Thursday, will come as suggested.  
Warn Teddy. Thank Mrs.Clark.  
Best.  
Andrew J. Parker

\---

Now that the day had come, Parker found himself circling the block for the third time.  
He was almost hyperventilating, and he made himself slowly breathe—in.......out......in.....out.  
He had no reason to be anxious, and, yet, he was.  
Teddy's existence reminded him more forcefully of battle than anything he'd faced for many months.  
(Yet, it should also give you Hope, his inner voice reminded him.)

He came around to the address again, mounted the steps, and stood, chewing his lips.  
The knocker—a large, ancient brass thing—reflected a distorted image back at him.

 

It felt awkward to raise the knocker to such an establishment.  
Andy felt he should be going in the servants door for sure, even though he knew such a thing wasn't proper.  
The Clarks had invited him as a guest, after all.  
“Get yourself collected....Andrew,” he muttered to himself,  
smirking at his own small joke.

Parker'd brushed up his uniform as best that he could.  
There wasn't much to distinguish the material of a poor man from a Lord,  
but there was rank.  
No matter what they might say about equality in the army, no one could do anything but pretend that the toffs actually still held rank while working class lads such as himself took second best. 

 

He shook his head. (Enough of that, Andy thought.)  
Teddy was a toff, and he'd been (he WAS) a friend.  
And this Clark fellow had come through for the both of them. 

Andy raised the knocker in his hand and let it fall, using his cuff to wipe away his fingerprints in one swipe before anyone could come.  
Standing straight and preparing to face the butler's scrutiny and pride.  
He'd pretend it was Barrow, he would. He'd pretend it was himself answering the door.  
And he'd make his way as easily as ever there was.

He'd have to.  
Teddy needed him.  
And given the miracle of his return, Andy wasn't going to let a little thing like nerves make him fail to come through.  
Bless Daisy. Between them they'd have it come out right.


	90. Chapter 90

-  
-  
-  
Teddy was safe, sent to Downton with Clark accompanying,  
Andy ached at not going with them, but he could do no better than that  
in a world that was suddenly very much on the Move.

In Parker's battalion all leaves were Finished and the men were told to focus solely on the business that was War.  
It was frightening for him to realize how quickly the months had passed since he'd been in battle.  
Somehow they'd slipped from winter into spring without much notice, and now they were rounding into summertime.  
It was 20 May, 1944.

\---

At least the preparations that had been made during those last months were impressive.  
Three separate plans had been ordered, two complete down to the last detail, only one of which was to Go.

First, intelligence had sent messages through “accidental” drops that the Allies might attack across the scarpa flows where Daniel Barrow once sat watch.  
(It had been considered a possible avenue of entry for the Germans to Britain. Now the Axis had a terrible time deciding if it might be an avenue the other way. )  
Let Hitler tie up men guarding the far north.

 

Then there was Operation Fortitude, a shadow battle plan complete to the last detail.  
Instead of allowing the Germans to discover the build up from Sussex through Dorset, they “allowed” them to discover a build up in southeast Kent, ready to embark from Dover. 

The build up?  
Dummy equipment, like rubber lorries, which when blown up looked from a distance exactly as the real thing would (produced at a former manufacturer of nylon stockings); fake landing craft; fake ammo dumps, hospitals, camps, planes made of canvas and scaffold.  
A huge oil storage tank had been created at Shepperton film studios.  
Placed in Dover, the rumor was put about that it fed a pipeline under the channel to supply the men during the invasion.

 

Of course, this “equipment” had to be camouflaged...not so well that the Germans wouldn't spot it, but not so poorly that they'd suspect.  
The 82nd Group Camouflage Company spent weeks on this, not just on the netting and brushwood, but also on making the tire tracks and trampled grass look exactly as one would expect an active site to look.  
Some of these installations were even visited by Eisenhower or the King & Queen, especially the so called oil tank and pipeline in Dover.

 

Those were the diversions. The slight of hand.  
The real plan was Operation Overlord, and a more researched and prepared operation would be hard to find.  
By the time they'd move, every square foot of the shoreline was mapped and pictured,  
tide tables studied, weather patterns assessed. 

New equipment was created for the specific task ahead of them.  
The most impressive were called Mulberries, which were portable harbors. (How well everyone remembered Dunkirk.)

And there were also smaller innovations:  
The crab—a clearing tank that flailed chains to find and explode the small MINES which had before been done by HAND.  
The bobbin—which unwound canvas and coir matting to lay a path across mud.  
The fascine tank—which dropped bundles of twigs to fill in ditches.  
The crocodile—a flame throwing tank to incinerate any obstacle in 300 feet.

 

If any attack had ever been ready, this one was.  
In a great line, the convoys began to trek down from the north to the south,  
convoys miles long, crawling along so slowly that locals could walk out and fetch the men tea.  
White star on the jeeps for liberation. Men in full combat gear.

 

And so, by the End of May they went from the troop concentration areas into the marshalling areas, called 'sausages.'  
There some briefings were given, but still the location names remained unknown.  
Civilians were barred from entering, harkening back to the early posters that “Careless Talk Costs Lives. “  
Now, the attempt was to quell any talk at all.

\---

“Now we wait,” Andy Parker said quietly.  
It was tense in the room, what with the men crowded and confined.  
“Why would they put barbed wired barriers around our own troops?” Johnny Bates'd asked, and the older man could do little but shrug.  
They didn't know anything useful.  
Even after the latest briefings they didn't know much.

A perimeter guard ensured that no contact could be made—an insulting addition.  
“There's one last post going out,” the commander told them, briskly passing by.  
“One last collection of mail.”  
His call was repeated, echoing back to them as he continued on  
through the men.

 

And that was how both men knew they'd best post their 'last letters' now,  
the post boxes were sealed off, any public phone lines were down, this was one last chance to send word to the people back home.  
“I don't know what exactly to say,” Johnny faltered.  
He wanted to write to his mother and father. To Clarey. To Violet. 

He wanted them to know he was fine and that they were prepared.  
“What should I write in case....” the boy's voice drifted off a bit. 

 

“You don't write that. You write them how much you love them, and give them hope.  
You can give me a letter to carry in case of....the other.” Andy himself hesitated.  
“Though we'll assume that it's just a precaution, almost a superstition to keep you fine & fit.”

 

John nodded.  
“We're soon to be off on our adventure,” he managed to write. “And first started is first finished, you know. I'll be home soon enough and can pick up the lessons mum is undoubtedly upset I'm missing.  
Thank Lady Mary for the offer of university.  
And thank you both for being such wonderful parents, the best ever a boy could want.”

Andy, sitting beside him, nodded.  
His was something similarly bright.  
Then again, Daisy had received his love in many letters. He didn't need to detail it again.  
And it was almost impossible now for Andy to think of them back home.  
Instead of strengthening him, it made him jittery.

 

Parker'd even put the photographs he'd carried through North Africa into his Inside pocket,  
not wanting them out over his bunk, not wanting them in his hand,  
needing to not have to look in his family's eyes  
just in case he failed them now.

 

“Right then,” Andy said in the most cheerful tone he could muster.  
“That's lovely. They'll like that. And when we get through to the other side and mail starts again, you can write them something longer still.”  
“You don't want something so terribly sentimental that they worry, since there's bound to be a gap between now and then.”

The boy nodded, and Andy patted his shoulder.  
Johnny'd been a good boy, always, and Parker was proud that he'd been able to watch him grow up.  
Fully a man now, just as Davey would one day be.  
Andy's breathing stuttered a bit, hoping he'd see his own lad grown as well.

 

It was double summertime, and didn't get dark until quite late, which meant that the soldiers had to keep busy in spite of their confinement.  
“The others are getting up a game of football, if you'd like,” Andy grinned.  
“Course most of us are old men compared to you.”

“Large old men with muscles,” Johnny replied, rolling his eyes.  
He was strong enough, and tall enough, but he hadn't been raised lifting bails on a tenancy,  
nor even trays in the big house.  
“Perhaps you can show me that card game again?”

 

Now it was Andy's turn to roll his eyes.  
“I can give you all of the basics, but when we get home you'd best to play with your father.  
He's the card sharp of the house, I think.  
“Me, I'm rubbish, you know.”

\---

D-day was a designation given to any operation. It marked the date it began.  
D-day, H-hour, then the clock started marking the recorded events into manageable parts.  
Hideous events, parceled out in a manageable bureaucratic manner.

Operation Overlord, however, was THE D-Day out of all of the others called that.  
For the men knew this opening of a second front meant the winning of a war  
it now looked possible to win.  
But they also knew the landing's probable cost.

May became June, 1944 and England began to hold her breath,  
waiting the start of the fight.

 

 

( http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-23771250 )


	91. Chapter 91

-  
-  
-

“I can't believe the blasted meteorologist misread the weather. Surely they didn't intend them to be ready in a monsoon.”  
Joe scuffed his heel against the floor of the kitchen as Daisy moved around him.   
It was peaceful at Downton again, their little interlude of invasion done as troops drained toward the south.   
Furthest north, first moving.  
(And now the fields and woods were silent, with only bits of cloth and litter showing where the men had been.)

“Have to go, don't they?” Daisy said, sensibly.  
Even she knew that once you start something, you have to see it through, weather or no.   
What would they do, move all of those men back up?  
Of course, no one was supposed to know anything still, which was the silliest farce of all. 

 

“The generals in charge are fucking idjits,” Joe said in exasperation, then hesitated.  
Would that make Daisy upset?  
“Well, course they are,” she said placidly putting a tray of rolls into the oven.  
Turning then to him.  
“Of course they are, but the men aren't. And it's the men who'll actually win the thing.”

She patted his arm with a calloused hand.  
“You don't have to watch me, you know, really truly I'm fine. Go have a sit, and I'll bring you some tea.”  
He narrowed his eyes.   
She was too sharp, their Daisy.

 

“Maybe I'm not watching you. Maybe I've come to take counsel.”  
She snorted.  
“No, this Teddy of yours, tell me about him. And the one with him, the Other Daniel.  
Sam and I need to know everything if we're to help.”

\---

Not too far away in the village Daniel Barrow's wife sat, doing her duty.  
The WVS had scheduled a collection that morning, and Sybil carried on with it, though everyone was tense.   
Expectant. Knowing.

However, instead of people strangling in to help or pitching a few pennies in the tin as they went hurriedly by to work, people were stopping.   
“You'll need all that you can get soon enough,” Mr. Bakewell had stuttered out after a generous note went into the till.   
“God bless.”

 

Sybil was both touched and worried.   
Daniel, of course, was already in the war zone, so in that way Sybbie lived her life worried.   
This was different, though.  
This layer of worry was for George & Andy & Johnny, but it was also   
an overwhelming worry of whether they could finally make it in to finish off the war  
once and for all.

That was the point of this second front, wasn't it?  
That was the dream?

 

“We'll let them know what's what,” ancient Mr. O'Leary said as he emptied his pockets of coins into the tin.   
Chucking MaryMargaret under her chin. “Your young men may not be as brawny as I was in my day, but we'll still wipe old Adolph off the map.”  
(The old flirt, Sybil thought, dimpling in spite of herself.)  
And he tipped his hat and grinned at her, before spryly moving on.

I hope we will, Sybil thought sincerely.   
I hope this lets us finally put an end to That Man.

\---

Down the road two older women were sending up similar sincere prayers.

“I fear we're getting too old for this,” Elsie Hughes murmured to Beryl Patmore.   
They were in her front room sipping tea and listening to the wireless.   
So far no news had come through, just regular programming that left them wanting more.

 

Elsie'd heard from a cousin up north that the ships had left Scotland,   
so she assumed they were heading to join up with those in the south.  
Just as the men in lorries had.  
But neither she nor Beryl were soldiers, nor wives of soldiers.  
Though they'd certainly lived through war, they had no concept of how long such a procession would take.

“I think they're just not telling us what's happening. Surely something is by now,” Mrs. Patmore said, sipping her own tea and settling back.   
They'd listened the day before, too, and had heard nothing.   
“Nothing's better than something if the something's a disaster,” she said pessimistically.  
There were so many lives on the line.  
Andy and young John Bates, but several of the Philpott girl's husbands, too.

 

“This had best work.”  
“I'm sure it will be fine,” Elsie said encouragingly.   
“I just wish the BBC would tell us for sure.”

\---

Phyllis Moseley had a basket of lunch packed for her husband.   
Usually he ate a small sandwich at his desk, but today his wife had asked especially   
if Daisy could put the two of them together a small bite for her to take down to the schoolhouse.  
Mr. Moseley was so worried these days.  
Of course, he always took things too much to heart, had never liked fighting.

 

But that wasn't all.  
What most people didn't realize was how hard it hit Joseph each time he heard of a former student's death in battle.   
This week the waiting was particularly tense.   
Instead of casualties reported after a battle, this time they already expected deaths....thousands of deaths.

Mrs. Moseley carefully picked her way over the cobbles toward his workplace.   
She'd sit with him during his lunch break, and listen to him bluster on about this or that.   
Knowing it would be a help.   
Knowing that he valued her.

And they'd both hope the war would soon be over, before any of the other youngsters grew up and had to die.

\---

Anna Bates was so nervous that her hands shook as she helped Lady Mary with her necklace.   
Her hands never shook, yet they did today.   
“Do you think you should go have a lie down?” Lady Mary suggested gently. 

She had a son in this , too, Anna thought with some irritation. Were people making her lie down?  
“I'm fine, my lady,” she said quietly.   
Politely. Like always. 

“Anna, it's your son. Your child. Heaven knows I can understand that.   
Georgie's out there, too.”  
Mary looked at herself in the mirror, leaning in closely to make sure the dark circles under her eyes were covered by powder.  
Patting her hair, she turned.  
“We're all a bit tense this week,” she drawled.

“Yes, my lady. We are.”  
Anna tried to let the words soothe her rather than irritate.   
Lady Mary meant well, but her son was not on the front line like Johnny.   
And he'd be working under a giant red cross.

 

Anna tilted her head, examining her mistress from head to toe.   
Perfectly turned out, as always.   
“Very nice, my lady.”

Mary smiled.   
“Thank you, Anna. And I can undress myself tonight if you'd like to have the time to listen for any news.”

\---

Meanwhile down south the generals and advisors were arguing.   
D-day had already been delayed from 4 June due to the weather (worst conditions in forty years.)

Now they had to decide if there was enough of a window in things on 5 or 6 June   
to make a go,  
for otherwise it meant that the wait would be another full two weeks delaying.  
And everyone was already stretched taut.


	92. Chapter 92

-  
-  
-

 

“And off we go,” Andy said, gently nudging Johnny.  
The gliders had already dropped parachutists hours ago.  
Then the coastal guns had opened up, shelling emplacements the Germans had along their side.  
  
Now, it was their time.

On the ship where the two Downton men were trapped, the air was full of  
diesels thrumming, hatches slamming, whistles blowing,  
And, of course, the constant murmur and shouts of men.  
So many men.  
The scratchy metallic voice of the loudspeaker strove to impose order by booming commands into the dark.

 

It was their time to go, and they knew many of them wouldn't be coming back.

The Americans shipped first, with Brits and Canadians following.  
Everyone had an assigned spot to attack.  
It was just to get the men there--a triumph for the strategic (bureaucratic) mind, this orderly chaos.

 

“We're up, and you know what to do,” Andy said softly in the boy's ear as they queued for breakfast.  
Anyone who could eat did, although seasickness had overtaken a lot of men.  
That and nerves.  
“I know what to do. I just hope that I do it correctly,” Johnny said, sitting down opposite him. 

The boy tucked into his food without a qualm, keyed up but purposeful.  
Andy, however, picked at his, knowing full well what combat looked like.  
(Let him eat as much as he can to sustain him, he thought, smiling down kindly at the lad.)

“You'll do it correctly. We've run embarkation and weapons drills so many times it should come to you on reflex.  
Just keep your head down and don't try to be a hero,” Andy counselled.  
“Your mother will skin me if I bring you back hurt.”

 

Johnny grinned around a mouthful of food.  
His mother WAS rather terrifying when it came to protecting them.  
He'd rather face the jerries than her anger any day.  
Swallowing and taking a drink of his tea, Johnny became more solemn. 

 

“You said you'd carry a letter for me if I'd like?”  
And he pulled one out of his pocket and passed it over to the older man.  
“In case...well...in case....”

“Yes, but we've none of that going to happen, you see. This is superstition to prevent it,”  
Andy smiled at him, and slipped the letter into his inside pocket along with his picture of Daisy and the twins.  
“You've the rest of your gear packed, of course?”  
The boy nodded.  
“Right then, let's go see what else needs done.  
Since Ike says the 'eyes of the world are watching,' we'd best give them something good to see.”

\----

That same morning, Marigold stood ankle deep in weeds to watch the planes take off,  
a soaring, growling mass that filled the sky from edge to edge with their roar.  
Small lights above her--red, yellow, green.  
Went by and then left her leaning against the field's fence  
in what was now wind whipped silence.

Taking a breath, wiping the tears that had fallen unnoticed from her eyes,  
Marigold next went to sit with a WAAF in the radio room, watching the progression of echoes ghost across the screen.  
A huge number. A massive progression.  
She'd stayed there with her friend, glued to the screen knowing  
This Was It. 

 

Marigold would still be running transport back and forth as needed for a while,  
but there was a Pause in the action now.  
Everyone was focused on that stately progression of blips across the radar tube.  
Until those men landed, everything stopped.  
And when they did, everyone would have to move quickly, to keep sending them whatever they might need. 

We're moving a city, Marigold thought.  
It's as though we're moving Manchester, and we'll need to keep it running by carrying every bite and bit over as they go.  
What a daunting thought.  
Not as daunting as for the men doing the fighting, but still it once again felt like the  
Home Front was a battle front once more. 

Marigold Brewster intended to hold her end up,  
and fly right.

\---

Now, the Germans called the northern coast their “Atlantic Wall.”  
Every precaution had been taken to protect it, though some of the defenses were being fortified so recently that by June they were not quite done.

Hitler had brought Rommel to the game. The Desert Fox.  
So far he'd faced England's General Montgomery and won once, then lost once (though Rommel had actually been recalled home before that fall.)  
This was to be the rematch, then. 

 

Rommel reinforced blockhouses and bunkers along the beach line.  
He dug trenches and anti tank ditches.  
He laid barbed wire and set minefields.  
Especially cruel, he lodged concrete, steel, and wooden obstacles at angles into the beach itself,  
some with mines or shells attached—designed to rip into the hulls of landing craft as they came in. 

That, of course, assumed they'd come in at high tide.  
A mistake the allies intended to exploit by coming at Half.

 

In addition, the Germans had been persuaded both by logic and by spies that the Allies would strike at a  
Different point along the coast.  
Ironically, only Hitler himself had the intuition for where the enemy might strike.  
Normandy.  
Gold Beach.  
Andy's company was coming in under poor conditions, but they were definitely coming in. 

\---

According to the 'plan,' the tanks were to go first.  
That was a lesson learned by an earlier failed attempt at Dieppe, and assurances had been made to the men that this would be a key advantage in Normandy.  
But these assurances seemed to be coming to nought, for the  
specialized tanks couldn't 'swim' in such high seas.  
Word along the infantry line was that the officers were 'working on that.'

 

Meaning the men were going first and alone.  
“Just remember to climb to the line, then do a backward drop,” Andy shouted as they prepared to switch to the landing craft.  
He wasn't just reminding Johnny this time. He was reminding them all.  
For even though the rest of his battalion had done an amphibious landing in Sicily, they'd not had weather such as this.

 

The rope nets were slimy to the touch, and his foot slipped as he went over, hanging on.  
“Just remember,” Andy muttered to himself.  
“And don't get stuck between the ships. Not much valor in that.”  
The waves caused his world to tilt sickeningly as the ship lurched then righted.  
Banging, splashing, yelling.

Andy felt himself fall,  
then land safe.  
“Shite.”

Johnny Bates came up beside him, grinning.  
“Shite.” the boy agreed.  
“And that's just literally the first step.”

\---

It was wet and the packs were heavy.  
Plus, the booming of the guns was much louder than Johnny'd expected, even having trained with their own going overhead.  
Perhaps it was an echo from the beach itself.  
Perhaps it was just heightened by his own fear.  
But Johnny had to struggle not to flinch as the assault force came ashore.

Of course, it was good to feel ground, even wet ground under him.  
Good to dig in and begin a slow crawl in the sea slime.  
As they fought their way in, the sun broke out in spite of the rough weather,  
and Johnny clung to that feeling of relief for a moment, then began to duck and move once again as geysers of earth shot up.

 

The tanks hadn't started ahead of them, but they could hear them now being directly delivered by landing craft.  
And the booming noise intensified  
as a strong combined effort began, leading them to clear points at Hable de Heurtot and the Mont Fleury battery. 

There was noise and confusion and men fell, yelling out, wounded,  
but it was so similar to the exercises they'd run that Johnny kept his head.  
As long as he could feel the earth beneath him and keep moving, he was all right. At least that's what he kept telling himself.

“Duck in here a moment,” Andy'd shouted to the boy when they'd come to a break in the action.  
“Catch your breath.”  
They'd shared a canteen with tepid water, tried to wipe mud from their faces, and, yes,  
breathe freely for a few. 

 

“We'll move inland next, just keep your head down and follow orders.”  
Johnny looked at the older man, nodding he understood.  
“But it's going well, though?” he asked sincerely, like a school boy wanting to know his score.  
Andy swallowed thickly.  
“It's going well...so far. Just don't let your guard down, thinking everything will go smooth.”

And they dodged out, then, back out into the noise and damp and confusion.  
Traffic. Engine fumes. Dust.

Everyone just trying to survive,  
just to move forward and win.

\---

The official news came calmly across the BBC 8am bulletin, as though it were a routine thing.  
“Paratroopers had been landed in Northern France.”  
And at 9.30 the newsreader John Snagge read a First Invasion Report with an account of the landing and the intricacy of the effort required to make it a go.  
“The weather has not been favorable, cold, cloudy with rough seas,' he drily noted.

At 9.45 Eisenhower issued the news to the entire world.  
'Be patient. Be patient. We're coming.'  
Giving them advise on how to help as the Allies came through.

 

Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore could finally bring out the chocolate Beryl'd been saving back.  
And a bottle of wine that Elsie had in reserve.  
Happy tears, wine, and chocolate.

 

Happiness that was widespread,  
everyone cheering at Downton,  
though the family knew it was far from over yet.

And the churches opened their doors for anyone to come in and pray  
that the men, once landed, would continue successfully on.


	93. Chapter 93

-  
-  
(Pull out if you've pulled out Joe.  
More war tomorrow....I thought I needed to space it, so that there was time passing as they moved inland.)  
-  
-  
-

 

The men gathered at the keeper's cottage that evening, though they knew others like them were dying in northern France.  
It wasn't that they were in the mood for frivolity.  
(All but one of them were combat veterans, after all.)

Rather they gathered because they'd learned the Futility of pacing.  
They knew the fruitless agony of worrying.  
And it was a distraction and a bit of comradery, coming together to play.

Comfort in numbers.  
Denial.  
Just a way to relax in the midst of life's tragedies  
cards.

 

“I should thank you again for putting up with me,” Clark started.  
It had taken him a week to push their way upstream to Downton, and then he'd stayed both to see Teddy comfortably settled and to get his own feet under him.  
Clark hadn't quite realized, after the long voyage and the time in London,  
how weak he remained.

“Put up with you? Why you're a legend of sorts 'round here,” Sam scoffed.  
Jimmy slid drinks toward them, winking at Teddy.  
“Legends get only the best.”

 

The two strangers eased back into their chairs, letting the rumble of masculine voices and the clink of glasses run past them.  
It may have been several months since they'd been discovered, but, of course, they were not in any way recovered from the ordeal.  
Though with strangers they Hid it well.

“Two,” Clark said, flipping through his cards.  
“One,” Teddy echoed more softly. His hand still shook, but he was at home in this—cards had never been a problem for him.  
“One for me,” Jimmy said, agreeably. “Thomas?”

 

And they went around taking cards and placing bets.  
“This Earl you work for, is he the good sort or the bad?” Clark asked, studying his hand.  
Barrow raised an eyebrow at the leading question.  
These men were both far from working class lads, after all.  
“He's all right,” the butler managed, mainly meaning it since Lord Grantham had seen him through some troubles years ago.

 

“The best sort,” Joe agreed. “He's a fine man on a shoot, I'll tell you that.”  
The others chuckled.  
Joe hated guns, but still could shoot and hunt, when the War didn't have such things stopped, of course.  
(And if Lord Grantham still went out, just the two of them, and wasted ammunition—well, no one would be the wiser on that.)

“He's a fair man,” Thomas allowed, pausing to study Teddy more closely now.  
His face had a hint of familiarity, but then most young people did; Barrow put it down to having met too many faces at this point in life to remember them all.  
Dark hair, large dark eyes, a rather generous mouth....and still as thin as a wraith.

 

“That's a rarer thing than one might expect,” Teddy said seriously,  
then with a bit of a flourish put down his cards and took the pot.  
Jimmy grinned.  
“We've a card sharp joining, have we? Let's try that again.”  
And so they did.

\-----

It was a most peculiar thing for Teddy to sit there watching the men at Downton.  
He felt he knew them, knew them so thoroughly that he could have correctly made them tea.  
It wasn't exactly that Andy had divulged any secrets, not intentionally, but they'd talked so many hours about things that almost everything had come out bit by bit.  
It was like that when you became best mates, Teddy supposed.

 

He breathed out a cloud of smoke, and watched in amusement as Thomas did exactly the same.  
“You don't have Black Cats,” he said without thinking, looking down at the pack.  
Barrow stared.  
“The cigarettes,” he added. (God, when would his tongue let loose in an easy flow again?)

Barrow nodded. “They've stopped making them. Had to go over to another brand. Hope they'll come back, though I don't smoke much these days anyway.”  
His grey eyes narrowed a bit, put off by the man knowing in detail his usual brand.  
He was Andy's friend, so it should be fine.  
And yet....

 

“Tell us about yourself,” he asked Teddy.  
“Not much to say,” the younger man replied.  
“And he's not much one to talk anyway,” Clark added, chuckling.  
“He'd talk your arm off in the camp, but we got out of practice when we were on the run.”

“Tell us how you escaped.” Joe paused. “If you can.”  
“Ah, well, that's a good story, so I'll tell it in detail now that you've asked,” Clark answered, pulling the attention to himself and off the Lieutenant.  
“I lost a few toes along the way, but I met some friendly Italian women, so the trade off was fair.”  
Sam chuckled slightly, then placed a bet. 

 

These lads and their stories, the old man thought.  
Every generation has their stories.  
But  
“Two,” was all he said.

\---

“What do you think of them, then?”  
It was late and they'd finally sent the rest of the men off.  
Miller was clearing the dishes, salvaging what food he could for the next day, raking the rest into a bucket for the birds.  
Thomas moved past him, helping, bumping into Joe slightly just to enjoy the sense of being together, though he tried not to let on.

 

“What do I think of them?”  
Joe looked at him seriously.  
“What would I think of them? The one that's Andy's friend must be fine, or he wouldn't be here at all. And the other one.....” Joe grinned. “Well the other one is a bit full of himself, seems too hard to be proving his manhood, but he's fine, too, I suppose.”

“You have to admire someone who won't give up like that.”

 

Thomas brushed past him again, and Joe was tempted, messy hands and all, to make a grab for him.  
The big man rumbled a deep laugh as he turned the hot water on.  
“What?” Thomas said, then seeing the smirk, blushed slightly.  
“Really,” he tutted then, but knocked into Joe, shoulder to shoulder as they started the dishes.  
(It always went faster with two, and they wanted done double quick. )

 

“What did YOU think of them?” Joe asked after a sudsy moment.  
Thomas considered, eyes narrowing once more.  
“Don't much like him having the advantage, knowing about us all when we know nothing of him.  
Did Daisy say anything?”

“Does Daisy ever hold back?” Joe joked.  
(Though he was sure of the woman's trust when it came to them.)

 

“I think Andy and he spent most of their time talking food, since she knew every dish the man ever preferred. Odd habits. Ways to make him comfortable. And that he'd fit in well at cards, which is why he was here tonight.”  
Thomas rolled his eyes slightly, looking down at the pan he was drying.  
It wasn't the sort of information in which he'd be interested. 

“Of course, his father threw him out of the house, which is why he's roaming here rather than home.”

That had possibilities. Thomas paused and looked over.  
“Threw him out for what? Who's his father?”  
Joe took a moment to finish the last of the washing, then pull the plug in the drain.

 

“She doesn't know. He'd refused to even tell Andy, says he's going by his mother's last name.  
“But she has a good idea of the why of it.”  
Joe grinned, wiping his hands and turning.  
“Daisy said he's a 'man like us.'”

The last pot started for the floor before Joe caught it, handling it back to a flummoxed Barrow to dry.  
Miller frowned, confused, but tried to keep things light.  
“You can't be that surprised that there are other homosexuals in the world.  
"That one eventually found Downton.”

 

“I'm surprised that Daisy....”  
Thomas stammered, a flush painting spots high on this cheekbones.  
He assumed she knew about HIM, after all. 

The entire staff knew about him, and it was only Daisy's innocence that would have kept her still in the dark.  


But they'd certainly Never talked about something like That.  
And to speak of such a thing to Joe?  
That implied she knew Joe was....perhaps that he and Joe were.....

 

“I love the glorious way your mind works,” Miller grinned at him. “I could practically hear it ticking away.”  
He could see Barrow was turning spikey, could see the telltale bunching of his shoulder muscles, the grinding of his jaw.  
“She'd've talked to you about him, first, certainly, but she didn't know if you'd be embarrassed or not that she knew so much about....things.  
“Made it a bit of a mission to learn, Daisy did, once everyone held her for a fool.”  
Joe paused before playing his best card.  
“And of course she Cares for you.”

Thomas blushed.  
“Bloody hell.”  
Miller chuckled and nodded toward the upstairs.  
“Done?”  
(“All the things I talk about with Daisy Parker, and I don't think I could ever talk about...sex,” Thomas muttered as he stomped by.)

 

Joe swatted at him.  
“It wasn't a detailed conversation about fancy fuckery.  
“She wanted me to know that she thought it was 'safe' to have Teddy here, really.”

They walked through the rooms, turning out the lights,  
Joe hesitating at the foot of the steps before going up.  
“He's an infant, of course, but Andy'd mentioned how handsome he is once he's back looking well. I think she didn't want me jealous.  
“Protective herself, our Daisy is.”

 

Thomas rolled his eyes and started up past him.  
“Too curious is what she is,” he said, before stopping. “And you've known for years not to be jealous.”  
“Hmmm..” Joe hummed behind him.  
“And yet, I always am a bit. You're such a beautiful bastard.  
You'll have to take it as a compliment, I suppose.”

And then he followed him up, glad to have distractions from what was going on in the world.  
Glad to have a night comfortably in each other's arms.


	94. Chapter 94

-  
-  
-

It was a matter of scoop and run, as always.  
Injured men at Normandy were scooped up by medics with stretchers, run to a beach dressing station, then, if stabilized, run to a loading zone where they'd board a hospital ship.  
This last was really the only difference from what George had been used to in Egypt. 

Scoop, run, stabilize, SHIP.  
Large numbers of men arrived in Portsmouth after being hit, disembarking a transport that carried stretchers, blankets, and supplies such as blood and dressings.  
As anticipated in cold hearted numbers, they began to come the first afternoon. 

 

“How long will this be going on?” George thought as he began yet another round of bandaging, waiting for another load which might need surgery.  
Notifications, of course, were on delay as medical personnel scrambled.  
Besides, why notify a family of an injury, when it might result in death. And why notify of an injury if the man might soon be sent limping back.  
News would wait the week.

 

“Whatever are we going to do, with all the men so damaged by this war?”  
Crawley sighed as he looked around.  
His position was about twenty miles outside of the disembarkation, close enough to receive a portion of the injured, not close enough to see them all.  
Many, many of the men ended up at hospitals closer in, like Haslan and Queen Alexandra's.  
But others, deemed stable, were transported through the countryside to where they could best be served. 

 

Men whose bodies had been healthy that morning came back, some walking wounded, some unable to get off of the stretchers at all.  
It weighed at George, heavily, the thought of this.  
The quick, sloppy work they did to save as many lives in any given hour.  
It was their best, true, but it didn't sit with him as quite 'right.'

“I've another one, here. Nurse! Quickly, please,” he tried to keep his tone even and polite.  
But the strain of it was enormous.  
George knew somewhere in this mess was Andrew, a man he'd known since boyhood.  
Johnny, one of his sister & brother's best friends.  
And what of the men who'd gone to university with George himself, but had studied the humanities?  
They'd not been allowed to be held back, protected as Crawley thought of himself. 

 

“This one. This one. I need some morphine, please.”  
George smiled down at the man, who was grimacing.  
“We'll fix you right up, old chap. You'll see! We've got the prettiest nurses, and I'm a regular whiz at stitching.”  
With the shot of morphine, the man relaxed, and George could get to work.  
“Quickly please.” (How many times would he say that today? And in the weeks to come?)

So many wounded for the number of doctors and nurses to treat.  
Burns, blast injuries, fractured limbs.  
Penetrating wounds.  
So many that some of the more mobile of the wounded had helped load the others aboard.

They didn't talk much, even the ones who could.  
They were too tired for talk, really.  
George Crawley was getting too tired for talk, really, but he kept on.  
Kept smiling.  
“Let's get you taken care of, shall we?”

 

And yet, and yet, he knew that Haslan doctors were far more swamped than they.  
So he kept going, and tried to feel fortunate.  
A difficult thing, really, when the whole world was gone mad....with all of these casualties.  
“Quickly, please. I've another one that needs help.”

And he wasn't a real soldier even, how could he dare allow himself any fatigue or hesitation.  
He was merely feeling the war secondhand through the men who really counted.  
The soldiers whose lives he tried to save.  
“Quickly,” Georgie smiled his brilliant smile and prompted the staff around him.  
“Let's get this man back to rights.”

\----

Meanwhile in Normandy, Andy and Johnny's battalion was doing quite well.  
“Does it always go this quickly?” John Bates had asked him, earning a slight snorting laugh from another of the older veterans nearby.  
“Like getting shot at, do you?” Andy teased him, astonished still at the boy's innocence. (Boosted by it, really.)  
It wasn't like they'd not had ANY resistance, after all.

The guns on the beach had blared, and there were pockets of men taking shots at them as they advanced down the division's left flank.  
Still, it had gone better than what the older man had feared. 

 

The strong winds which scattered the airborne had done them a favor, as the Germans couldn't interpret the target, and turned their troops in a fruitless march the wrong way.  
“This isn't as bad as it could be,” Andy allowed cautiously. “But you still need to be on guard.  
“It'll get worse soon enough.” 

He hated to say that to the boy, truly, but he couldn't have him thinking they were out for a pleasant walk through France's hedgerows.  
(Thick, tall hedgerows in which shooters could—and did—sometimes hide.)  
Still, they'd managed to make Crepon by 1300, and went on to the west of it to go after a suspected rocket projector site, keeping to Plan. 

Johnny began to hum very softly under his breath, ducking for cover when they all did, taking a few shots, but not yet evidencing the deadening of hope many of them had.  
“We got past the worst of it for today, don't you think?”

 

“We might have a fight of it to take the site.”  
Andy wasn't trying to be humorous, and they did have a brief bloody skirmish, but then it was over.  
The ammunition store exploded, twelve Germans killed, another 40 surrendered, and they'd lost only one man to injury. 

“Think he's our good luck charm, I do,” an officer joked with them whilst walking along.  
“Young Bates seems to have a halo over his head.”  
Johnny blushed, and smiled, and blushed some more.  
Andy laughed.

 

It wasn't bad at all to be going across open country to the southwest,  
though every spot that could possibly hide a gunner caused the Veterans among them concern.  
At the very least, it looked like they might actually achieve their objectives—  
a rare thing when one's reality matches up to what's on paper.  
So they followed the Rubicon Road, pushing to Villiers le Sec with their supporting armor, all in fairly high spirits.

Mid-afternoon the German Battle Group Meyer counterattacked, but after a sharp fight, they Drove Them Back.  
The Germans made a stand at St. Gabriel, and they Drove Them Back toward Brecy.

 

“You might be our lucky token after all, Johnny,” Parker remarked when the men stopped for a smoke break.  
True, they'd lost some of the tanks, but, overall, they'd done well in moving forward and not losing more along the way.  
By the time they'd captured several German officers, the joke had spread to a rather large swath of the surrounding men.  
When they set up a set piece attack with artillery and machine gun support, only to find the Germans already retreated, the same officer came up telling Johnny, “Next time tell us when you've 'lucked' us completely out of a fight. It'll save us some time as well.”

At Brecy that night, they consolidated their position and dug in, with Johnny certain he was in the most skilled of armies ever.  
And Andy waiting for the bloodshed he was certain that would eventually come.

 

6 & 7 June the men were restless, digging in, patrolling to take care of small pockets of Germans they'd bypassed who now tried to snipe them before dawn.  
When they advanced to Ducy Ste Marguerite, they came under heavy mortar attack, with additional fire as well.  
“My luck's run out,” Johnny admitted sheepishly.  
Andy smacked him on the shoulder.  
“Don't say that. You're standing and uninjured. That's all the luck a man out here dares to claim.”  
But the boy's optimism had flagged, the reality of blood and death finally settling in with no chance of reprieve soon to come.

In the most stupid stroke of bad luck,  
Both British and German aircraft attacked their position, and they had several casualties before the battalion dug in on Ducy's high ground.  
Yes, things were beginning to look more like they'd expected, rather than how they'd wished.

 

That night, smeared with muck and mud and seeming pensive, Johnny was on his back looking up at the night sky.  
Andy joined him in the stargazing.  
“That one over there is Daisy and mine's,” the older man said, pointing with a hand holding a cigarette. 

Johnny smiled.  
He'd never thought to claim just one for his own.  
He'd spent so many nights admiring them all.  
“There's a poem about Cassiopeia, Violet used to recite sometimes,” and the boy made a go of it, having to pause sometimes, but still remembering it fairly whole. 

 

“Miss Violet's an interesting girl,” Andy prodded gently.  
“She's a good friend,” agreed Johnny carefully, emphasizing the last word.  
He didn't know how exactly to define what it was about Violet he found so interesting.  
It wasn't something he could put into words. 

“Well, it might not end well if it was anything more than that,” Andy said gently,  
noting out of the side of his eye Johnny's nod.  
The obedient nod of a very good boy.

Parker chuckled then, remembering his gawky and callow self trying to pay his Daisy girl court.  
“Let me tell you about how it was with Daisy,” he said grinning in the darkness.  
"She was so far above me, with the farm and the books and all.... I felt like I was reaching for a star."  
And like a bedtime story with the twins,  
he told it all in a piece, until the drone of his voice  
put them both to sleep.

\---

But their luck had truly turned bloody and back against them.

And in the end, it was D+5 that slowed them and left Andy stunned.  
The men came up against fierce opposition in the country east of Audrieu.  
with severe losses, 200 casualties in a failed attempt to reach Point 102 near Cristot. 

And in that horrible collection of hours,  
over the dust and noise of battle, Johnny lay helplessly crying,  
every sort of emotion seeping out of him every which way along with the blood.  
  
Whilst beside him, trying to stay calm, Andy wrapped a bandage tightly around the boy's wounds.  


Andy was bleeding himself, but it was the boy that had him worried,  
blood still leaking through as he waved for a stretcher bearer to come Quickly  
to send the boy to the dressing station  
in hopes that he'd make it home in time.


	95. Chapter 95

-  
-  
-  
The phone rang in Barrow's office.  
It was an ordinary sound, happening as it did several times each morning,  
and Thomas picked it up without much thinking.  
Irritation came by phone, but not dire news...no worries, there. 

“Thomas?”  
The voice was hesitant compared to his original answer.  
It took him a fraction of a second and then....

“Andy?”  
Barrow stood up, phone in hand, trying to figure out what was happening that would cause  
Andy Parker to be on the other end of a telephone line, rather than in the fight.

“Thomas.” Parker's voice sounded relieved. “Yes, it's me. It's Andy.”  
The man spoke slowly and loudly as though not trusting the line,  
or perhaps not trusting himself to speak.  
“I need your help.”

\---

Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, and their maids had gone shopping, which meant Anna Bates wasn't anywhere near at that time.  
But Bates was.  
He and Lord Grantham were getting the old man ready for a morning visit with one of several nearby  
“dear friends.”

Seeing Barrow outside the dressing room door, Bates came to a stuttering stop,  
asked to be excused, and came out to the hall.  
He could tell in a look that something was amiss.  
“Tell me,” was all he said.

 

“Andy telephoned and said John was wounded. He didn't know how long it would take for a message to go through official channels, and, besides, he didn't want to take the chance of either  
Anna or Daisy having to get a telegram and have that moment where they thought them both dead.”

Bates swallowed.  
“So they're not dead?”  
Thomas would normally have smirked (“not unless I've been talking to a dead man”),  
but the news was too tenuous.  
“No, they're alive, but the boy's not doing as well as might be hoped.  
Andy thought you'd want to know, just in case you could manage to come down.”

 

Barrow didn't know if he should even mention the last bit.  
It wasn't really much of a possibility, to go into a restricted zone right now.  
Yet they quickly discussed it--the impassibility of trains, the limits of petrol, the general route that would have to be made.  
Then if they could even enter the zone around where Johnny was being kept.

“I'll ask his lordship. Perhaps he'd help,” Bates said, though he sounded doubtful.  
“We couldn't start until tomorrow, anyway, with Anna not back until late.”

\---

Edward and Clarey came around the corner as soon as the older men left.  
Stunned.  
Both had overheard the entire conversation in their  
usual habit of keeping an eye on things.

“Come with me,” Edward said gently, prodding his friend toward his bedroom.  
They had things to discuss, and they both needed a bit of a sit down, too.

“Donk and your father will come up with a plan. You'll see,” Edward said, trying to calm his friend as they made it through his door.  
Clarey looked ready to cry, which was a side of him he'd never seen.  
“You heard him. They don't even know if they Dare try,” the taller boy said.  
“All those rules. Daddy and mum always follow the rules.”

 

Young Bates began pacing, trying to take his agitation out in activity.  
Travel was restricted these days, he knew, and difficult even where it was allowed.  
(And yet the Crawleys had made a journey not that very long ago with Sybil.  
Would it be That different, now with the invasion on?)

There was also the problem of the end of things.  
Sneaking into a military zone was more something he might do, not his parents.  
(The voice in his head mocked him when he tried to believe he could manage it himself.)  
The boy shook his head and flopped into a chair next to Edward, burying his head in his hands.

 

He needed to wait,  
and he wasn't good at waiting.  
“I don't know what to do.”

\---

“May I help?”  
Violet knocked at the half open door as she said it, making the boys jump and turn around.  
“You shouldn't plot and plan with the door ajar,” she said seriously,  
closing it behind her.  
“Now, please do tell me what's wrong. I can tell from your tone something is.”

\---

Downstairs once more, Thomas went to see about Daisy.  
He'd managed to hand off the telephone before the connection cut, though he didn't know how much of a talk she'd been able to have.  
“If they go, I want to go,” she said first thing, chin stubbornly stuck out. 

“They probably won't be able to, Andy shouldn't've ought to said anything about that.”  
The butler went by to try to make her a cup of tea.  
“Give over,” she rolled her eyes, not letting him get much of a start.

 

“Will they send them home, then? Andy thought they'd put him straight back in the fight, but he didn't know about Johnny.”  
She looked down.  
“He seemed ever so upset about Johnny."

“Well, we'll have to hope that the doctors do a good job of it,  
but if he's badly enough hurt, surely they'll send him home.”  
(Badly enough, but not too badly—though they didn't speak of that.)

\---

Meanwhile, at almost the same time the news was seeping out to the edges of the household,  
Violet came up behind where Clarey was sitting and tapped him on the shoulder.  
The boy turned to her, eyes still a bit wild and cap askew.

“You look far too guilty to get away with this,” she said lightly, coming around the bench.  
The girl, only eighteen herself, set her train case carefully down.  
Dressed in a day suit, with a trim little hat, she looked nothing so much as what she was--  
a young woman of good family going for a trip.  
“I don't ever look guilty,” Clarey retorted, straightening himself up somewhat.  
Violet smirked.

 

“I've got the tickets for the next train, but we'll have trouble once we reach the city.  
Getting out to the actual hospital....getting IN to the actual hospital.”  
She looked at the boy, weighing whether he was up for this.

Clarey nodded, decisively.  
He might be jumpy, knowing what his parent's reaction would be when they got the letter he'd left.  
However, he was ready to make a go. 

“We'll manage just fine, I'm sure. Everyone understands what it is to have a soldier get wounded.  
And they'll be sympathetic to you, especially. Being his sweetheart, that is.”

 

Violet glared at him.  
“I'm his friend. That's all.”  
At this, Clarey finally grinned.  
“Well, a pretty girl like you, he's a fool if he hasn't thought of it in all these nights.”

“You're much too young to be such a flirt, Clarence Bates,” Violet huffed, frowning severely.  
He grinned wider. (She'd been distracted then; that was good.)

“I'll get older.”  
He paused.  
“And I'm not afraid of you, Violet Elizabeth Talbot, so you needn't try to glare me down.”

Fortunately for him, what she replied was lost in the roar of the train pulling in.

\-----

Edward, ever the responsible one, carried the letters down hours later that evening.  
He hadn't had to lie at luncheon, with his grandfather out on a visit, and his uncle so preoccupied he'd barely noticed the meal at all.  
Hours and hours he'd sat quietly in a window seat, calculating mathematically where his sister and friend would be at that moment in time. (He'd tried to make them take him. He could barely stand being left behind, though it needed to be so, to steer mama and Donk as Violet needed done.)

 

By dinner everyone was gathering, talking.  
“I don't see how it would be an advantage to go,” his grandmother argued.  
“Andrew is there to watch over the boy, and surely if the army hasn't bothered to tell them yet, it can't be all that bad.”

“If Bates wants to go, I want to try to see that he goes,” his grandfather had replied, “though he isn't having any luck finding a room to stay, even if we can get him there.”

“Every nook would be filled with soldiers, of course,” his mother added.  
“But you're correct, papa. If they want to go, somehow we must make it happen. It just might take some Time.”  
Only then did Mary notice him, notice him watching them so carefully,  
notice his tension.  
And his mother looked around in one sweeping glance.  
“Violet?”  
Edward nodded.

Mary rolled her eyes.

 

And the rest of them turned to him, staring, not understanding what his mother had guessed in a glance.  
Edward, always the responsible one, came forward and handed her two letters.  
“She said to give you these, mama. She said if she tried to explain it to you all, there would be too much of a delay.”

And Mary nodded, understanding completely how her daughter thought of things. (She frequently thought of them the same way herself after all.)  
Behind them, however, behind them, Donk was beginning to catch on to this latest development,  
was beginning to sputter and groan about the younger generation.  
Pointing out that they now had not one youngster to rescue but three.  
How would they ever manage that?

 

Of course, this was a second reason they'd left Edward back to deal with the family.  
The boy needed to arrange some things in a way his family ordinarily wouldn't approve.  
Coming quietly next to his mother, the boy whispered, “I know he's busy on Duty, mama, but I really think you should telephone George.”

For the three of them had agreed that  
with enough leverage, they might be able to convince George  
the family needed him more than the army  
at least for now.


	96. Chapter 96

-  
(Note: Don't take any comments today & tomorrow as negative reflections on actual persons in the RAMC or how those wonderful people would have done business. For Georgie, I've NOT placed him in a hospital he should be in, even...I'm following a group that was mainly Canadians because I preferred their 'route' for story purposes.  
Thus, this is Total fiction...as we go fanficking on....)

=  
-

 

Violet had no memory of her great grandmother, though she'd certainly heard stories—usually after she'd done something perfectly logical but rather ruthless.  
And it was those stories she drew on now, those stories and thoughts of her grandmother running the hospital, thoughts of her mother facing down angry tenants.....and anyone who'd ever dared question the Crawley name.

Thinking of all this, Violet straightened her hat and raised her chin, brushing some dust from her skirt.  
“We'll be fine as long as we look like we know where we're going,” Clarey told her, used to brazening things out with charm.  
“You're awfully young, and I should have worn one of Sybil's uniforms,” she said in an undertone as they swept through the door.  
(“I look as old as Johnny. I'm just as tall and..... “ he breathed quietly back, but she was no longer listening.)

 

For the first thing that hit her was the smell.  
There was soap and some sort of disinfectant, but it couldn't quite cope with an underlying sweet but sickening scent. (Blood? Fear? Sweat?)  
If there was an odor to hopelessness, it was the one lingering like an undertone here.

 

“We've a call from here about a Private John Bates,” she said as regally as possible to the youngest and most harried woman she saw. (The one most likely to be compliant, she hoped.)  
Violet looked down at a paper in her hand as though it contained the key to things, when actually it was merely her own jotted notes from earlier on the train.  
“I don't know...” the woman started to pass by them, but seeing Clarey faltered.  
“We'd appreciate any help you could give us, telling us which ward,” he said, smiling winningly and using his best upstairs voice.

“Fine then, but step lively,” the girl said, half exasperated.  
She was quite immune to young men flirting with her by now. (Though the lad was rather handsome....as well as uninjured & whole.)  
Mainly though, these two looked harmless enough, and to have someone  
obviously upper class asking about a private--there'd be a story to tell the other girls later that night.  
“Follow me and we'll check the listing, but then I'll have to run.”

\---

The click of their heels echoed as they walked down the ward to the far end  
causing the men to stare.  
Holding herself together with difficulty, Violet nodded back to a few as she passed.  
Face serene, posture correct.  
(These poor men, she thought, and their poor wives and families they'd left back at home.)  
Steeling herself, she walked onward to the corner where she found....  
them.

Of course Violet should have known Andrew would be there, too.  
The older man was bandaged himself, but slumped in a chair nearby. Asleep, but ready to pounce if the boy made a noise. 

 

And Johnny.  
“My God,” breathed Violet softly.  
From behind her, Clarey reached out to grab her elbow as she swayed slightly, though the boy was whitish green himself.  
Violet swallowed down the lump in her throat and looked back to the bed where her  
friend was lying so quiet and pale, like someone already dead. 

 

She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat to alert Andrew to their presence.  
And it worked--the older man jolting awake and staring at them, not able to believe his eyes.  
“We came when you called, Andrew,” Miss Violet said quietly.  
“I'm sure the rest are coming when they can arrange things,  
but Clarey & I decided to get the jump and came to you straight away.”

Moving carefully, sitting next to Parker, she looked over at Johnny.  
Without letting her eyes off of him, she took a deep breath and asked  
“So how is he?”  
in the bravest voice she could muster.

Though she could already see that things didn't look as they ought. 

\---

Meanwhile...  
They were motoring down the road top speed in an ambulance.  
The world had gone mad and taken George with it.  
“Stop looking so grim, Doctor Crawley. We'll have them scooped up and back as quick as that.”  
Liz Stanton was settled in smugly beside him and foraging in her bag.

 

She'd been the one who'd first spoken to his mother, he being in surgery.  
She'd been the one who'd brashly asked one of the other girls in the offices to work them up some papers....and had collared the ambulance driver to let them use his vehicle,  
no questions asked. 

Georgie had questions.  
Wondered how Liz even knew the ambulance driver well enough.  
Wondered how well her friend knew the senior surgeon who'd signed the papers.  
Wondered whether they'd make it back in time before anyone would notice them missing, even with the girls covering. (And whether they'd get in trouble, given that they did have some sort of orders in their hands.)

 

How had his sister got them into this situation, for it was Violet's flying leap into the unknown which had surely been the tipping point.  
Without it, they'd have all done what was Expected, sure as all that.  
George Crawley didn't lack for initiative, but he did have some sense of propriety and acting as expected. (They weren't frittering away time socializing at his post, after all, and one didn't coopt other doctors' patients, besides.)

“She's nice, your mother,” Liz said placidly, interrupting his thoughts.

“She wanted you to help, and you did,” he said, rather ungraciously, and regretted it.  
Sighing a bit he added, “I apologize for how that sounded. She undoubtedly was grateful for the help is what I meant.”  
“I didn't embarrass you, George,” she said, narrowing her eyes and suddenly becoming very fixed on the view of the passing countryside.  
“I told you already. When she asked for you and I told her you were occupied, I offered as a friend to send the message along or do whatever I could.”

 

“Stealing an ambulance,” he muttered.  
“Borrowing,” she corrected him.  
“We'll go and scoop them all up, just like anyone else with transfer orders. And you know they'll all feel better, knowing you looked him over, come whatever may.”

“And Violet?”  
“Can sleep in the nurses' quarters. I'll lend her whatever she needs.  
Then we'll get her shipped off as soon as we get her soldier boy fixed.”

George rolled his eyes, in a fashion very much like his mother at her most put out.  
“Violet's too young to have a soldier boy, Elizabeth. She's just been reading too many novels....”  
he drifted off as she laughed.  
“Judging from what your mother said, this one doesn't read novels at all, and she's got everyone jumping to her tune in quite a strategic fashion.  
“Wish old Monty had half the skill. We'd cut the war down by a year.”

 

Crawley let the sound of the road lull him for a minute, the feeling of wind cool his heated face on the summer's day.  
(It had taken them too long in the arrangements, he thought. A day had already passed, and this was all for nothing. He'd let his younger sister down....)  
“It'll be fine. You'll see,” the nurse said, patting his arm after a bit.  
Then reading his expression, “even if you can't save his life, your sister will know you did your best, and it'll mean everything to her.”

Then she went back to foraging in the large medical bag at her feet.  
“I just hope I've got whatever we might need.”

\---

A fly was buzzing in the window, knocking itself senseless against the pane.  
Violet had sent Andrew back to his bed to rest, while she took a turn at watch.  
Clarey was lying on the floor under the cot, trying to sleep, but mostly failing.

Neither of them wanted to be in the way, intending to get up when the doctor came in,  
but so far it had only been nurses, worried nurses who looked sympathetically their way. 

 

Violet hated their sympathy.  
She'd looked over what she could of the cryptic diagnosis on the I-1220 attached to John's clothes,  
And hadn't hesitated to ask the nurses questions, even lifting the covers herself when she had a few moments where Clarey'd drifted off.  
There were burns, shrapnel wounds, and a rather largish hole that was swollen and not closed.  
It seemed that they were worried about an infection spreading. 

 

The nurses had debrided the wound, used a silver solution in the cleansing.  
With so many patients, though, the process was too labor intensive.  
When the one woman as much as admitted it should be done more frequently, Violet had insisted on learning how to do it herself.  
Fools.  
To let a man's life perhaps be lost because they didn't have enough hands to do something as simple as this.  
(She pushed back the thought immediately. His Will Not be Lost.)

 

But having finished for now, she had nothing to do but sit, staring at Johnny's face.  
The fly kept beating itself to death against the window, and she wanted to cry, though she wouldn't let herself.  
Violet, like the fly, was trapped and beginning to give up hope.

She checked below the cot, where Clarey had his eyes closed.  
Then she leaned closer to Johnny taking his hand.  
“You'd best get better, Johnny Bates. I can't keep things going back home all on my own.”  
And she softly went on talking to him,  
while below her Clarey Bates kept his eyes closed, but smiled.

\---

She should have known by the raised flutter of female voices in the hallway outside the ward.  
But it wasn't until she actually saw his golden hair and flashing smile that Violet knew her brother had come.  
“George, thank God,” she said, breathing out in relief. 

“Violet,” he said, voice ironic.  
But he brushed past her just as Clarey managed to get to his feet.  
“Clarey,” he added, tone adding a touch more humor.  
“And let's see what we've got here,” George Crawley said as the “children” pulled back to give him room.

\---

Crawley's discussion with the Attending was so scathing that the man was happy to accept the transfer orders at face value, just to get the other doctor out the door.  
George knew men died of small misjudgments, and he feared with Johnny he was close to witnessing that.  
His wound hadn't closed due to infection, and it would take luck as well as medicine to turn that around.  
All George could do now was try.

 

“I'm not sure if I'm AWL or not,” Andy said, when he was finally sitting in the back of the ambulance with the rest.  
“Nurse Stanton said she'd make sure of things, once we get to their posting,” Clarey replied. 

“That doesn't necessarily make me certain of the matter,” Parker parried, but he smiled at the boy.  
How had Andy ended up out in a war with the children,  
rather than back with the adults where he belonged?

 

Closing his eyes, though, Andy felt himself drifting.  
The ride wouldn't be long, but the fresh air and rolling motion as they travelled did their work  
(that and the morphine),  
and soon Andy found himself asleep, more certain than the young doctor himself that  
With Georgie in charge of treatment, all would soon be well.


	97. Chapter 97

-  
-  
-

 

“An interesting case you've brought us,” Dr. Carroll said somewhat humorously to George.  
Since he'd been the one to sign off on the orders, Hilary Carroll was as much in the soup as he was,  
so Georgie could answer straight.  
“He needs a revision surgery in that one area to try to remove some of the infected tissue, then heavy doses of penicillin if there's to be any chance of success.”

George knew it was a favor he was asking.  
It wasn't as though they had time for something additional such as this.  
In ordinary triage, they'd have amputated the limb if it was possible, or in this case—too high up—they'd simply have administered drugs to keep the man calm,  
using the time and medicine they'd saved to treat Several other men instead of just this One.

 

“Friend of your family's, Lucy said. Liz told her something about a younger sister's sweetheart?”  
The older doctor looked Johnny over with a clinical eye.  
“It might work,” he said, taking a deep breath in as George nodded.

“And we'll be in a knot with the nurses if it doesn't....true love conquers and all of that rot.”  
(Oh, how George wanted to protest that his sister was too young for 'true love,' but he stifled it, wanting any help he could get.)  
“Probenecid with the penicillin to increase the efficacy, and I'll expect to be invited to be godfather to the first born Bates, after the war.”

\---

“Johnny?”  
The voice drifted in and out.  
“He's not coming alert, George. Why isn't he coming alert?”  
“Give him time, Violet. For heavens sake, when did you become so impatient. Give him time.”

 

The voices drifted in and out again.  
“Johnny?”  
“His color's better.” (It was Andy Parker's voice. So good to hear the man was fine.)  
“He'll be back to his books soon, you'll see.” (And Clarey, too? What an odd dream this was.)  
“Johnny?” (Violet's voice was calling to him, but he couldn't seem to open his eyes.)

\---

It was rather like coming out from under water.  
Hot water, the way the pond at the Abbey felt when you swam in it in August.  
He was sweating, but not unpleasantly so.  
And he was coming up from the deeps.

“Johnny?  
"Johnny, you're worrying me. Please wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered open slightly and he could see her sitting near him, not looking at his face,  
just holding his hand. Tightly.  
Must still be a dream, then. (Violet would never hold his hand.)  
“You have to come out of it or they'll stop wasting their precious medicine on you.”  
The last came out bitterly, full of the irritable nature he'd come to enjoy.

“Answer me. NOW,” she demanded.  
“All right, Violet. Don't get upset,” he managed to whisper.  
And then stopped as she turned her tear stained face to him.  
Violet crying? Definitely still dreaming...  
And if his younger brother hadn't entered just then he was quite certain that  
he'd have next been dreaming of a kiss.

\---

“He's back then, your fiance?”  
“Friend,” Violet and Johnny said together, voices intertwined.  
It was a few days later, with Johnny more coherent, and things closer to their usual shape.  
  
By now, though, the ENTIRE nursing staff was aware that Young Love was playing out in their back ward.  
And the two of them would be lucky to be home before the women insisted on an  
army wedding in the little church nearby.

“Right,” the young nurse said, winking at Clarey as she checked the older boy's vitals and started to exit.  
Then turning back, “And we've finally got a handle on sending you home, private.  
It might take a while for the army demob orders to catch up to you, but we've almost got it right.”

 

She left and it was just Clarey and Violet watching over Johnny now.  
They'd 'lost' Andrew Parker back to the war, you see.  
Andy had received his orders the day before, having managed to see Johnny briefly awake before he left.  
The older man wanted to stay, of course, wanted to see the boy through until he was actually fit.  
But duty called, and Andy had need to answer. 

Which left Clarey, Violet, and Johnny.

 

“I'm going to eat with Liz and George,” Clarey announced. “Do you want me to bring anything back or should I just leave you two Lovebirds alone?”  
Violet glared. “Honestly, Clarence,” she tried.  
“Honestly, Violet,” he mimicked, not quite daring to call her Letty as Edward sometimes did.  
(Though she'd acted like a Letty this week, Clarey thought, admiring her more than he ever had.)

\---

And Finally it was just the two of them.  
They sat there side by side, and neither one spoke for a bit.  
“I'm quite untidy today,” Violet finally murmured to fill the silence that weighed on her mind.  
Johnny smiled.  
“Where on earth did you get such a rig of clothes as that?” he teased.  
Violet was usually precisely dressed in only the very best of clothing, and this poor little button up shift was not much of that.

“The nurses have been helping me some,” she said, rising and smoothing at the fabric as she walked a few steps away.  
(Violet knew she looked frightful, but it wasn't very gentlemanly of Johnny Bates to bring it up, now was it? )  
“And it's not gentlemanly for you to criticize,” she added firmly. 

“Not a gentleman, now am I?” he said blandly, repressing a smile.  
“And apparently you've told everyone that we're engaged now?”

 

“I..I...I did NOT. They keep saying it, and saying it, but I didn't.”  
Violet said it in a rush, blushing furiously.  
“Must've had some reason,” Johnny continued to prod at her, enjoying winding her up.  
“Fools,” she said severely as he tried not to chuckle.

“Hmmm....pity. Clarey said you'd saved my life and that I couldn't do Any better.  
“Though I guess now I'll have to look somewhere else. One of the nurses or something.”  
She turned and glared at him.  
“Nurse? You wouldn't dare, John Bates.”

 

And it was only when he burst out laughing, helplessly clutching at his side with the force of it,  
that Violet realized he was simply joking.  
“You'll hurt yourself,” she said in exasperation, coming next to him and checking that the bandaging had held.  
Johnny grabbed her hand then, not letting go of it.

“You came all this way to save me, Violet,” he grinned.  
“Won't you put me out my misery with a kiss?”

“But I can't marry you,” she said concerned, but leaning closer.  
“Didn't ask you to,” he replied, breath hitching,  
just before their lips  
FINALLY met.

\---

“They'll be home by next week,” Lady Mary announced, coming into the drawing room.  
Across from her, Tom raised his glass and smiled.  
“And what do you intend to do to your wayward daughter?” Lord Grantham said seriously.  
HIS daughter, rolling her eyes, got a drink and went to sit next to Branson.  
The silence stretched as her father waited her out. 

“Really, papa, what did you ever do to punish me? Or Edith or Sybil for that matter?  
Cora, sitting primly in the corner reading paperwork, kept silent and tried not to laugh.  
“She managed something we couldn't...or wouldn't have dared try,” Mary said, patiently.  
“And if she ends up actually liking Young Bates, I don't want to hear any moaning about it.”

Tom again raised his glass.  
“To Lady Mary Crawley, a believer in True Love Conquering All.”  
She raised her class and nodded back.  
“Yes, I suppose, in the end I do.”


	98. Chapter 98

-  
-  
-

Andy stood on the deck of the ship, smoking, eyeing the darker grey of the shoreline coming ever near.  
He knew Daisy wasn't happy at him going back, but the wound wasn't serious and the fight was. 

“That was our position, over there,” Sully--another man from his division, though not his battalion--pointed.  
They'd not had as much luck with their tanks getting in and their loss of life had been far greater than Andy's group.

“Our sargent took out a machine gun nest, he did,” Andy said, pointing vaguely with the hand that held his cigarette.  
“You should've seen him. I have a mate, Thomas, who makes that fierce face when he's slaughtering opponents at cricket. Never did see it when a man charged an entire emplacement by himself.”

 

Sully chuckled. “Bit of a nutter?” he joked, offending Andy somewhat.  
“No, I don't think so. An absolute hero to us.  
“But then after all this fighting aren't even heroes a bit on the edge?”

Both men grew silent.  
It was common to have a Corps Exhaustion Center with each division now, though no one wanted to be known as a man who'd ended up there.  
The divisions were based on home location, after all, and you'd undoubtedly run into some of the fellows after the war whom you'd abandoned going off the line.  
(Can't go off the line when it's just the voices in m'head, Andy thought.)

 

“Heard about the Americans at Omaha?” Sully asked.  
Andy nodded, having heard about the numbers at the hospital.  
“They're brave, but what a slaughter.” Sully shook his head and threw his cigarette down, crushing it under his heel.  
“See you out there, Parker.”

\---

It made sense to Andy that the division lacked a certain 'stickiness' due to battle exhaustion.  
(He was certainly feeling it.)  
Still they'd held up their end, their battalion, and exceptionally so. 

Now, though, he was headed back into a stalemate in a location on the map not all that far from where he'd left.  
And by now his division had 3600 casualties in soldiers, over 300 officers....the second highest losses in the campaign.

“Daisy's right to be worried,” Andy muttered, shivering slightly as the wind whipped, chilling, around him.  
“Monty's got us as targets pinning down the panzers, to help the Americans break out on the west.”  
He swallowed and stood there, wondering for one split second why he hadn't just kept going when he'd had a chance of it AWL. However, duty had called and Andy had answered, reflexively.

And now Parker squared his shoulders,  
“We just need to keep plugging away, and we'll get the job done.”

\---

In spite of the casualties, with the second front opening, the general mood at Downton was more positive.  
“Your men are heroes, really,” Edward said sincerely, sitting with Clarey in the blue room where Johnny was recuperating.  
They'd taken their books there to study, being allowed by Anna and Lady Mary both as a way to keep John distracted and ready for his future at university,  
And a way to keep his sister Violet out. 

“They aren't heroes the way it is in books,” Johnny cautioned, shifting in pain. (It wasn't as though severe wounds heal over night, skilled doctoring or no.)  
“Or rather they're heroes for doing what they've done while being ordinary men.”

 

“Well, that's heroic enough,” Edward said sincerely, eyes shining, for he thought Johnny was quite grand.  
“It is, really,” Clarey assured his brother. “ordinary men facing down tanks and machine gun fire. Finding the bravery to do what they must.  
“Golly, Johnny, it's the best way to define a hero, better than novels have.”

“I don't feel very heroic. I actually feel quite stupid,” his brother admitted. “Shortest military career in the books.”  
The boys all laughed then, though John grimaced and fidgeted doing so.  
Then they went back to reading off Richard III, though some of the parts were so familiar to Johnny, he almost had them by heart.

\---

“I've a letter from Daniel,” Sybil said, chewing her lip.  
She'd come into the kitchen to share rather tentatively, knowing Daisy'd been put back on edge by Andy's injury and then his return to the front.  
(The man HAD truly been through enough, Sybil thought. Why weren't they pulling that division to the rear or at home? But, then, she wasn't the general in charge....)

“What's he say?” Daisy asked, wiping her hands against her apron, then bending to get more flour for the board.  
They had fresh veg from the garden and eggs from a few undocumented hens,  
And Daisy was pulling together tiny quiches for the dinner savory, concentrating to make them perfectly right.

 

“He says Italy may be rather pleasant in peace time, but it's not to be taken as a frolic during war.”  
Daisy snorted. While she'd many times wished Andy had the less dangerous postings Daniel had, she'd never wished the opposite to be so.  
Yet, here was Daniel in a hot zone (both of them now) and the worst of it was with the second front opening, the allies had pulled men like Andy out of the area--  
many divisions—leaving Italy a low priority.  
While the Germans hadn't been given the directive, and kept on fighting to defend the boot.

 

“None of it's a frolic, thanks ever so,” Daisy said, nimble fingers working.  
“And I won't be surprised if none of the men want to journey beyond Yorkshire once it's ended—no matter how many scenic views those other places have left.”  
(The cook had once dreamed of travel, but now she'd be more thrilled to see Andy come down the lane at Yew Tree than any photograph he might send, even if they captured Paris or Rome.)

“He doesn't like being with the new division, though he says they're good fellows. He wishes he could have been part of the Normandy campaign with the rest.”  
Sybil looked down at the letter, caressing the paper with her fingertips.  
She wished he wasn't part of any campaign, wanting him very much home with her and the baby.

 

“Might as well fight one battle as another,” Daisy said sensibly. “They're all going toward the same goal now.  
“I just wish the Germans would take a look at things now and sue for peace.  
“Really, truly I do.”

She popped her pans in the oven after checking the heat.  
It was a bad workman who blamed his tools, but the old oven was the bane of Daisy's existence, and she was hoping after the war they'd stop making airplanes long enough to produce Downton a stove.

 

“The V-1's, though....”Sybbie drifted off.  
Georgie had moved to southeast London for the month, readying to embark to Normandy following the soldiers.  
And he was now near the target where the German doodlebugs were hitting.  
“They don't give up easily, these Germans,” Daisy admitted. “Really, they don't.”

–

The gong rang.  
The Crawleys dressed.  
And dinner with leisurely drinks after ensued. 

The entire family tried to appease Cora by not talking shop (or war)--though, of course, both items came up briefly.  
Everyone was very Carefully on their best behavior, for with just a little push the topic could veer into disagreements--  
runaway granddaughters;  
the place of servants in relation to family (and what to do if they became in laws);  
why the war was not ending more speedily;  
how things might change when the end did come.

So many potential arguments,  
all skillfully and blandly ignored and pushed away.  
So that everyone might sleep peacefully that night.

\---  
\---

 

Of course, no one was getting as much sleep as they ought.  
Sybil had taken to spending the wee small hours in the nursery, seeking the solace of her daughter.  
This night, she'd fallen asleep in the small cot they'd set up beside MaryMargaret's crib.  
And Thomas, entering in an effort to keep an eye out, had covered Sybbie with a blanket, then taken the baby up himself to keep the small, wide eyed thing from raising a fuss.

At nine months, MaryMargaret was already a charmer, gurgling and reaching, smiling and chuckling.  
She did not, however, like to be ignored and could be most emphatic in expressing such, before switching back to a sweet baby chortle when made the center of attention again.  
“We'll go for a bit of a walk and let your mum sleep, shall we?”

 

Thomas began to pace up and down the nursery hall, having a one sided conversation with his grandniece.  
“Your father is being brave and taking care of some business in Italy,” he informed the infant, who looked quite impressed, gurgling back an unintelligible reply.  
“In his last letter he said he misses you so much, but he'll be back soon and you'll get to meet him and won't that be fine?”

Barrow jiggled the baby slightly and Mary Margaret chuckled and grabbed at his hair.  
“No, now, don't do that. Uncle Thomas likes his hair on his head, thank you very much Miss Mary.  
Mary quite contrary. How does her garden grow.”  
The baby was quite content to be rearranged into grabbing ahold of his hand.

 

Thomas had enjoyed playing with all of the babies at Downton.  
Had now seen several raised to adulthood. (How well he remembered both Sybbie & George like this.)  
But he felt himself almost besotted by this young miss.  
It wasn't that he didn't love the others, for he did. Deeply.  
However, somehow MaryMargaret felt more rightfully HIS than ever the others had before. 

 

“I forgot you were such a good dancer, Barrow.”  
Lady Mary, coming behind him silently, was smiling.  
“Pity we no longer have the servants ball.”

“We no longer have that many servants living in,” Barrow said reasonably, stopping his swaying back and forth.  
He hadn't been startled to see Lady Mary, hadn't bumped or jostled the baby at her approach. 

For Mary Crawley was also a frequent visitor to the nursery these days.  
It calmed her to see the little one, when worried about Her little one who was grown and off to war.  
“May I take her from her uncle a moment or two?”

 

“Certainly, my lady,” he said, carefully disengaging the child who now had ahold of an ear.  
And they stood there a moment, with the child between them.  
“Mary quite contrary, was it?” she teased. “Carson used to say that rhyme to me when I was a child. I'm afraid it turned out to be a self fulfilling prophecy.”

Thomas inclined his head.  
“I wouldn't say so, my lady.”  
And they fell into step together, going slowly down the hall. 

 

“How is Daniel doing? Have you heard anything Sybbie hasn't?”  
Mary asked it directly, knowing that Barrow many times Knew Things, and this was his family's business, after all.

“I've heard about the same as she has. He's doing as well as most.”  
She nodded.  
“That's about what Georgie says to me, too. He's doing as well as the rest of them, and I'm not to worry. But, of course, I do.”

“It's difficult not to, my lady.”  
The baby gave a chortle and mussed Mary's hair in an alarming fashion.  
“This one is a grabby little thing. You'll be an active little girl, won't you?”  
And with a surprising ability, her ladyship rearranged the child to their mutual satisfaction.

Then, continuing on up and down the dimly lit halls, she and Thomas talked.

\---

Violet, of course, had gone down to Johnny's room to check on him, now that most of the house was asleep.  
She was quite certain he'd be fine, but she'd still taken to doing it at least once in the middle of the night having not quite broken the habit from the hospital of being Near.  
He was still healing, but he could sit up now with some assistance, which was an improvement.  
Doctor Hollingsworth had him exercising his arms and legs, in preparation of getting him eventually back on his feet. 

 

For now, though, they were making sure that the cleaned wounds healed completely.  
And that the pain from them slowly eased away. 

“Your mother will have me thrown out if she finds you in here,” Johnny had laughed the first time he'd awakened to find her smoothing the bed clothes and checking.  
“My mother knows you can't move and are too sore to do anything untoward,” she'd returned.  
“Besides, if they trusted us alone in the tower all those nights, why wouldn't they trust us now?”

 

“Because you ran off on a train?” he'd replied quite sensibly, as she helped him raise and turned his pillow to the cool side.  
Sighing he sank back. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she smiled.  
“And I didn't run off. I did what was necessary.”  
Smoothing his hair back, she raised an eyebrow.  
“Really everyone here acts as though it's not the modern age, as though a girl can't buy a train ticket and go somewhere unchaperoned. It's a bit silly to pretend that we're back when granny was a girl.”

 

He took her hand.  
“Thank you,” he said again, his eyes quite serious. “I didn't really thank you enough when we were back there. So thank you again for now.”  
“You're welcome,” she said again.  
“Now go back to sleep....are you comfortable?” 

And seeing his nod, she leaned over and kissed him, chastely though--knowing what she felt, yet still afraid of it.  
“Good dreams,” she added and was gone.


	99. Chapter 99

-  
-  
-

 

The V-1 was nicknamed the doodlebug because of the distinctive buzz it had before it hit.  
The German name 'vergeltungswaffe' meant revenge weapon, and it was that, with 70 hitting a day during the heat of July & August.  
That distinctive buzz, then a horrific bang as a portion of the earth became dust. 

They had squadrons of the RAF patrolling Kent and Sussex trying to foil the blasted things.  
And barrage balloons over southeast London, that almost seemed to be goals for the Germans to try to hit. 

 

Georgie could take a picnic into the country overlooking the city, sit on a hillside in relative safety as one of the rockets whizzed above,  
Then watch as a geyser erupted.  
And in the distance he knew somewhere—possibly quite close to where he was stationed—was destroyed. 

They had less to do as embarkation grew near—or rather more to do and yet, more orders to Wait.  
When given a half day, George tried to placate his granny, taking this lady or that from whichever 'good family' out for a spin.  
(Lord and Lady Grantham had been much alarmed at Violet's behavior and it was up to him to convince them that at least he would end up 'marrying right.”)

 

It was frustrating to be maneuvered, even though he had always intended to do his duty.  
Even as a (slightly ornery) little boy he'd been steeped in responsibility and duty, as well as honor,  
and he was trying to cling to the values he'd been taught. 

“Do you have to deal with the grubbier aspects of the fight?” one (clueless) miss had asked him, immediately disqualifying herself from contact after the war.  
“Surely as an heir to your family, you'd be held back some.”

Yes, he WAS held back from carrying stretchers but it was still quite 'grubby' indeed. 

 

“It's not too very bad,” he assured her, blandly smiling his brilliant smile.  
“But I'd rather speak of more pleasant things....like you.”  
(At which point, the ladies invariably did.)

\---

Meanwhile young Dr. Crawley was having less luck jollying up his counterparts.

“I'm being transferred,” Liz sputtered. “I'm being left behind while the rest of you go packing off.”  
The woman was so frustrated she'd thrown her jacket down on the chair, then kicked it—chair, not jacket—until the rickety thing gave a crack.

“Steady, Lizzie,” George said, still standing from when she'd entered.  
“It's a good thing. You'll be safer here than there.”

 

“Rockets whizzing and banging around—Are you sure of that?  
“And if I am, what of that? I TRAINED to go and I should have done.”  
She stood there, glaring a bit, having been patient with George's foolishness about family duty.  
Liz knew George Crawley was what she wanted in a man, even if she wanted him as a GP in the country, not an heir to an estate.  
She'd watched him, occasionally, thinking the same about her before waving it away. But if she was out of his life....

“It'll be fine in the end, you'll see,” he said, pushing the shock of blonde hair out of blue eyes in a gesture that was so familiar to her.  
“It won't be now,” she said sadly. “Even if it does end now, it won't be fine in the end.”

\---

And still the rockets kept going with buzzing and crashing, rearranging fields and buildings and lives.  
Then one day a buzz and a bang hit someone known at Downton—Henry Talbot, not Georgie (who'd just shipped to Bayeux)

But in spite of it not being their nearest and dearest, the blast did have echoes within the Abbey's walls.

\---

Lady Mary was sitting in her office, holding the telephone receiver, not putting it down.  
“Mary?” Tom questioned.  
Her face had gone quite pale, and he couldn't tell from her end of the conversation why. 

“Mary?”  
She came back to the present with a start, looked at her hand holding the receiver and put it down.  
“I must speak to the children,” she said, rising. 

 

“Mary, what is it?”  
“I,” she said, pausing, “Am going to Hell. As surely as that.”  
Branson would have laughed, thinking it a joke, if not for knowing her so well.  
“Why?” he asked gently.

“Henry's dead. And I've certainly wished him dead a time or two.”  
Tom blanched a bit at this.  
“You've never said one bad word against him since the divorce,” he countered. 

“Just because I don't always show my feelings doesn't mean I don't have them.”  
Mary looked down at her hands, sliding the fingers of the right over the left hand where once she'd worn Henry's ring.  
“But I did think it, especially immediately after I found out.”

 

Tom'd wished his former friend misfortune, though never actual death—being too superstitious to let his mind even go to that extreme.  
However,  
“You know that's nonsense,” he said, stoutly trying to make her less anxious.  
“What actually happened?”

 

“One of those....foolish....rockets hit him,” Mary winced “And his tart.”  
She wanted to reflexively laugh. (There was Revenge for you!)  
But Henry was a former lover after all, even if she'd Fooled herself into calling it love.  
And he WAS the father of two of her children, besides.  
“I must speak to the children.”

“Of course you do, and I'll go with you to help.”

\---

Edward, obviously, was most difficult to tell.  
Sitting there, whey faced and smaller than his years, still looking much like the child Mary still thought him to be.  
Her empathetic boy, his green eyes filming over with tears.  
(He has his father's eyes, she thought randomly.)

Violet showed more strength, or at least had the strength to NOT show what she felt.  
“Will we be invited to the funeral?” she asked a bit pointedly, having not been invited to attend her father's second marriage.  
“Or will we have our own memorial up here?”  
Still she rubbed small circles on her brother's shoulder, comforting him, before he drew slightly away.

 

Mary hadn't thought that far ahead.  
Tom looked between the two and ventured, “Why don't we take one thing at a time, and see what your grandfather thinks? He knows your father's family well enough to ask.”  
“But where will he be buried? And That Woman? Or is there anyone left to bury?” Edward began to rattle on.  
“Darling, let's take one thing at a time and that's how we'll manage things," his mother suggested.

 

“Barrow says you can eat an elephant if you take it one bite at a time,” Edward agreed, still looking a bit glassy, and Mary realized he was in shock or nearly so.  
“Let's ask Barrow for some tea, shall we? Maybe if he's here, we'll have better luck with the elephant,” and Mary went to ring for the butler, knowing tea with sugar would be a first step, with perhaps the doctor being called.  
(Barrow, having been a medic, would know about that.)

“I'm so sorry, darlings,” Mary said, going to sit between them, leaning into Violet's shoulder, while also pulling Edward into her arms.

\---

They went down to the sitting room afterward to get a drink, Tom pouring them both generous amounts.  
“I'm so sorry, Mary,” he said.  
She was looking a bit pale herself, her hand shaking as she took the glass.

“The problem is that I thought I loved him, talked myself into loving him, and, once married, kept talking myself out of divorce.”  
She sipped at the smooth brown liquid, the alcohol burning slightly as it went down.  
However, she kept sipping, half afraid to be tipsy, and yet wanting to be Very Tipsy indeed.

Tom sat next to her, sighing.  
“I've apologized time over time for my part in that.”

 

Outside they could see Mr. Samuelson trying to put the lawn to rights from where it had been trampled in the spring.  
It was as though the entire establishment had been torn apart.  
The air through the window was hot and did little to alleviate the stuffy feeling inside the room. 

“It wasn't your fault, you know,” Mary said. “And it wasn't really even Henry's. He was just Wrong.  
“I wanted to be in love. Talked myself into thinking because he was Exciting, he'd give me the kind of love like I had with Matthew.  
Like you had with Sybil.” 

He nodded, taking his own large sip of drink.  
“We did have Love, at that.” 

 

“You see, don't you, that we've never found that again because it's impossible.  
That exuberance. That Young love.  
“All we can do now is look for something different.”

“Something lesser than?” Tom asked sadly, knowing that's what Talbot had been.  
And Tom had avoided ever accepting anything less than his feelings for Sybil over the years. 

 

“No. Different can still be True.   
I'm different than I used to be when I loved Matthew. I'm never going to be that young girl fizzing with emotion again, so why should I keep wasting my time looking for that?   
“I wasted my time trying to find it with Henry.  
And I'm sad he's gone, but I'm sadder still we wasted each other's time, since time is the most precious thing of all—after Love.”

Tom sighed again, needing a walk to clear his mind.  
“I'll try to find out the arrangements for the funeral this afternoon,” he said, swallowing the rest of his drink in a gulp. 

“Thank you, Tom. If you don't mind, I'll just stay here and...rest.”  
(Perhaps allow myself the comfort of a few tears by myself, she thought.)  
He patted her gently, once, as he went by, knowing quite well that she needed to be alone a bit.

 

Leaving,  
Tom realized he'd not thought about it quite the way Mary had said—that he'd wasted years of his life looking for Sybil. (Truly, she'd never be replaced.)  
The alcohol warmed him some.  
He didn't like to think about the ways he'd changed--letting go of the revolutionary, letting loose of the car magnate, settling down. (Even if his most precious Sybil was resurrected before him now....would they even be a match? Had he betrayed her by growing old?)

He didn't like to think of people his age or younger dying.  
Yet here they were again, proving that life was too short  
and every day should be looked at as a gift.


	100. Chapter 100

-  
-  
-  
In France, the Americans had broken out on the west, which enabled a push back across the line.  
Even the veterans who'd been demoralized had to agree things were finally beginning to 'cook.'  
And news of attempts on Hitler's life only raised the Allies' hopes all the more, even while the attacks continued to be fierce.

 

Italy, though.  
Italy had been a rather rude awakening for Daniel Barrow's men, providing towns of cheering locals happily greeting them, juxtaposed to booby trapped villages and Germans waiting to snipe.  
Any day above ground was considered a gift.

As the summer turned into fall, Daniel found his battalion once again switched to a different regiment, their third. (So much for comradery and loyalty, Daniel thought.)  
For they'd reached a point in their fighting just south of what was called the “Gothic Line” or, sometimes, the “Green Line.”  
And they'd been 're-attached' so as to take up the right of the corps front line, not the left.

 

“If that American general hadn't been a glory hound and headed for Rome, rather than following the battle plan, they wouldn't've been able to consolidate,” Jenkins groused as they sat around the tent's lone table playing cards.  
“Slipped the noose, they did. So much for international cooperation,” Barrow joked. “And now how're we set up to fight?”  
Then “two” he added blandly.

They were going up further on the boot than they'd been thus far, which was progress, true.  
However, the plan had been to capture the gerries in a pincer movement, which one of the American officers had felt less important than liberating the 'eternal city' of Rome.  
(The Unguarded city, already known to be free of German troops.)

“He'll be hailed a hero back home, you can bet, though he made a right pig's ear of it for us,” Gabrielson commented.  
Then, “one.”  
“You're bluffing,” Barrow said, looking the other man up and down. 

“Oh, really?” Gabe grinned back. “Put something in the pot and maybe you'll find out, you gump."

 

“Slave labor they had, building all those machine gun emplacements. That's who those gerries are, using prisoners as slaves,” Jenkins complained, frowning severely at his cards.  
“Three.”

“They've built lots of things that way, the dodgy arseholes have,” Gabe commented.  
They nodded.  
Rumors had reached them, somewhat, about what was happening at the prison camps where the Germans held Their 'enemy aliens.'  
And unlike the British camps, the vaguely rumored conditions held an ominous tone.

“We'll just have to mop them up, then,” Barrow said. “Liberation's the word of the day, right?”  
And he put down his cards and looked over.  
“Now let's see if I can liberate a few coins from you all right now.” 

\---

As jolly as the men were Trying to be, the emplacements weren't to be taken lightly—over two thousand machine gun nests; almost five hundred anti tank, mortar, and assault gun positions; concrete reinforced trenches for soldiers as well as trenches to foil the tanks.  
And so much barbed wire, the mind could barely conceive of the work it had taken to string it out. 

Stretching from Pesaro to La Spezia-- if anything proved the Germans' intentions of keeping fighting to the last of it, the Gothic Line did that.  
And now, instead of catching the gerries off position in the battle they'd planned, they needed to face them in the position the German's had easiest to defend.

 

Even so, things started fairly well. 

Daniel's men moved forward to the Red Line backed by 1500 guns and 400 bombers.  
They crossed the Metauro River without much push back at all.  
What they didn't know was that the German General in charge was unsure if they were even making an attack and gave only minimal response.  
And when he realized it was an attack, the German still hesitated to bring out his men full force, assuming that it was a diversion and that the true assault would come from the Americans to the west.

 

“I'm not sure why they're so bad at playing bull dog,” Gabe said as the men ducked behind a house, bullets passing by.  
“I'm not going to call it playing until the bullets stop,” Barrow answered him sarcastically, ducking out and returning fire, before ducking back, a corner of the building shattering tiny fragments over his head.  
“But we've kept moving,,, It's just fucking curious,” Gabe said, jogging around the house and ducking behind the next.  
“It is, that,” Barrow answered, again ducking and shooting before they moved on.

\---

Three days after the Allies started shifting and skirmishing, Kesselring received a copy of the Englishman Leese's 'Order of the Day.”  
The main assault was Indeed coming near the Adriatic. And it would take the German troops two days at least to realign and begin to fully reply.

30 August, the men reached the first Green Line positions and proceeded to punch through in hours. 

“Still think we're in for such a big fight?” Jenkins said snidely as they fell in and marched on.  
“Yes,” Barrow said, simply. (It wasn't paranoia if you KNEW they were coming to get you.)  
“They've been fortifying this area for long enough now that they won't just hand us the key and go home.”

 

Like a well tended machine, the Germans made an orderly move to regroup behind the Conca River.  
And they were joined by their other divisions, now warned and prepared  
to make it a full out defensive effort indeed. 

Daniel's men's first hint that things had changed came as they fought through Montegridolfo, a beautiful town that in any other way would invite a good ramble to see the views.  
The narrow streets, though, just invited fright when trying to clear the town of enemy combatants.  
The chapel, the tiny homes between the hill and the sea.  
The castle so high above sea level—Barrow didn't see it so much as a 'sight' as a strategic advantage, an observation point poised so high above them as they swept through.

 

“Still think it's a walk in the village with your old mum?” Barrow said, rather spikey as they faced fire from machine guns.  
Jenkins snorted. “Well, we had to come to this sometime.”

And they ran forward then on personal initiative, knowing that it certainly wasn't the brightest move on their part if they wished to live, but also knowing that the nest needed to be cleared.  
Jenkins, Gabe, and Barrow ran forward.  
Gabe and Barrow cleared the nest, killing the crew of three. 

“Is he?” Barrow asked when they finally had time to breathe.  
“As a door nail,” Gabrielson answered, a mixture of angry and sad.

 

And going back, they dragged their mate to a doorway, but couldn't do much more, before another gun started chattering their way.  
“Well, that's not very polite of them,” Daniel said, getting even more upset with the state of things.  
And they ran up the lane, trying to dodge bullets and death which had just claimed their friend,  
as they did their duty to the rest of the division—men whom they barely knew.

 

They had a few days of Relative calm where they moved to another point on the map.  
A few days to steel themselves. (A few days to remember Jenkin's death and lose confidence.)  
By 10 September they reached a place called Gemmano,  
which was to hand them the bitterest fighting of the campaign, having been the death already of men from other divisions in two prior attacks.

It was Daniel's division now that took the third turn up the hill.

\---

 

20 September, 1944

 

Darling Sybil, 

I'm sorry I haven't written for a while, sweetheart.  
That battle I told you would delay the letters some turned out to be a rather tough go.  
And I'll tell you straightaway that I'm wounded, though it's just a scratch.  
(Obviously just that, or I wouldn't be up to writing you, now would I?)

I don't remember exactly how I got off the line back to the Field Hospital.  
It must have been speedy, though; tell my uncle the medics took care of me well.  
We were in a little town called -------, beautiful and quaint like all these towns are.

 

However, the gerries were about, shooting back and (idjit that I am) I got in the way of a bullet.  
So they'll have me back healing up, which should actually make you feel glad.  
No, not that I've been hurt,  
but that I'm back where I'll be totally safe for as long as It takes to heal. 

They had to dig the fool thing out, so the surgeon probably did more damage than the German. (Wonder if the censor will let me say that?)  
Anyway, I'm fine. And I miss you. And I miss the baby. 

Much, much love to you all. 

 

I'm sorry to hear about your Uncle Henry, though I know the two of you were no longer close.  
And I'm also sorry to hear about Andy and Johnny.  
(Though it's a blessing, in't it, that Johnny is home, even if he got hit to get there?)

Tell Daisy I'm sure Andy & I will both be home soon, and you both can fatten us up some.  
Would you recognize me, all lean and wiry?  
I'll trust we can become re-acquainted, Mrs. Barrow, once I come home. 

Loving you--  
Daniel.

\---

He looked it slowly over, weighing his words.  
Danny hadn't held back the truth from Sybil before, but the thought of what he'd seen in that little town still haunted him. 

The bodies piled around Point 449, where the cross was. (Men, dying, reaching out for it by reflex.)  
Or the untidy heaps of soldiers and civilians near the houses, where they'd hoped to duck and cover.  
The smells of death and battle along the way.

In the end, he was thankful for the bullet that hit him,  
granting him at least a few weeks of peace out of the war, wishing it had been enough to get him home.


	101. Chapter 101

-  
-  
-  
The canteen was noisy with music and excessively crowded.  
Marigold would normally have made her excuses and not come, but it was her last time with the girls before moving on from the Auxillary  
and back to a more normal life.  
“I can't believe you're deserting us,” Sally said sadly. “After all we've been through.”  
Marigold smiled in agreement.  
The girls had certainly had some adventures. It wasn't easy being a female in a man's world. 

“We'll still see each other after the war, surely,” she answered.  
“You and Mable don't live that far from where Abe and I are making our home.”

 

“Oh, I'm really so sure you'd have the likes of us over for high tea in a castle,” Mable grinned at her--not being nasty, just being realistic in what she thought.  
“First, WE won't be in a castle. We'll have a nice country house.”  
(One friend winked at the other.)  
“And it might just be big enough to have guests....like you two....whenever we want.”

Marigold took a sip of her pop and looked over the crowd.  
“I'm not the snob you two always tease me of being, not any more at least. And surely you know that by now.”  
She delicately blotted her lips with a napkin.  
“Now, tell me why there are so many Airborne in town.”

\----

“I'm just tired,” Andy tried to console himself.  
“It's just been such a long, bloody road of it, and I just want to go home.”  
He was in yet another transport going east to Holland.  
At least they were making some progress, but he couldn't work up much enthusiasm for any road other than the one to Downton.

The northern front had continued cooking, far more than was comfortable some days. 

Particularly difficult had been the Faloise Pocket, not too long after Andy's return.  
The allies had the Germans surrounded, and moved forward a yard at a time in an exercise that could best be termed a 'killing field.”  
The sight of the slaughter and wreckage was almost unimaginable when Andy's men passed through on the left flank.  
And Andy took no joy in cleaning up the remnants of Germans as they finished things.  
Though at least now they had the gerries on the run.

“I'm just tired,” Andy repeated to himself.  
“And I wish Monty would trust his latest scheme to any other division than us.”

\---

“Which is the Market and which is the Garden?” Marigold asked, tucking a titian curl behind her ear and looking the man up and down.  
“We're the market and your army is the garden,” the paratrooper replied patiently, explaining the operation.  
He was quite flattered such tasty dishes had an interest in what he'd be doing the next day.  
“They'll land our boys to the south at Eindhoven and Nijmegen. Yours over a place called Arnhem.  
“Then the army will move south to north between connecting the two.”

 

The girls all made sounds of awe at the idea of it, while really thinking the man a fool for giving out the plan so casually.  
(On the other hand, they were still in their uniforms, so perhaps it was a compliment he thought they could 'handle' the news.)  
“And d'you think something of that sort could work?” Sally paused and added, “Really?”  
The country might idolize the generals, but she'd had a young man (or two) she'd cared about lost to their plans. 

“Geez, yeah! It's the sort of thing they tried in Burma, only bigger.  
“Your old Montgomery's brainchild. Fly an army in and land it behind the Germans to form a bridgehead for the troops down the line.  
That's what your 1st is doing at Arnhem.”

“Our part is to help clear bridges along the way for the troops on the ground.”

 

Mable winked. “Sounds smart.”  
Marigold frowned. “Actually, it sounds dangerous. I hope the paras are up to the challenge on this.”

“Are you worried about me, honey?” the young officer said, grinning broadly.  
“Only so much as in it effects the plan succeeding, though I'm sure you're really quite kind.”  
And with that, Marigold gave her friends the sign and they left the canteen for a quieter place.  
(Leaving the young American wondering what he'd said to kill the deal....before seeing another pretty girl and moving on.)

\---

Andy was staring at the map and trying to get it clear in his mind.  
(Thank heavens he'd learned to read all those years ago. How did anyone ever keep something like this sorted without?)

Lt. General Horrocks was giving his usually cheery attempt at inspiring them.  
“We go through Nijmegen, then north through the 'Island'--the land between the rivers—then to the other side of the Rhine at Arnhem, which they should have taken and held in wait.”  
“We have two days,” he said, and the men below him murmured softly one to the other.

 

“Bridges are here,” and the officer pointed around the map in several locations, since Holland was a land of rivers and canals.  
“The airborne drop in first to clear them and make sure the Nazis don't blow them up, seeing us approach.”

Andy sighed, sitting in an audience full of equally exhausted men.  
How appropriate that the man between Horrocks and Monty was a man named Browning, for most surely, he thought, the men are thoroughly Browned Off.

\---

Marigold stood with her two best friends, looking out over the field full of airplanes.  
She understood why they rather pitied her, along with offering congratulations. 

The young woman realized that she'd never again be a part of something quite like this,  
no matter how thrilling marriage and motherhood proved to be.

Marigold felt her heart overflow with the inspiration of it all.

\---

The next morning the drop came and went, surprising the Germans and cheering the occupied people.  
Parachutes dropping like the seeds of a dandelion. Blowing, twirling in the wind too numerous to count on that bright Sunday morning in September.  
In the northern point of the campaign, the town of Arnhem,  
people came out to watch them float down, smiling and chattering, sure liberation had come.

A few in the underground, however, were unsure how the British at Arnhem hoped to keep their position. There were panzers nearby, and they'd sent word through messenger of that fact before this foray even started.  
“We've thousands coming,” the officer assured them when they finally connected up.  
“Let's see if we can just lock down this end of the bridge, perhaps even try for the south.”

 

Meanwhile,  
Andy's men were Far to the south, just at their starting point below Nijmegen.  
The first problem already faced them--the narrowness of the road.

Tanks led off, in a creaking, rumbling line, spewing fumes, with transports of infantry coming behind.  
And every short little jog of it, they'd run into Germans, and have trouble both with fighting back to clear them,  
and clearing any attacked equipment afterwards out of the road. 

The very narrow road, which had no room to pass.

 

“It's a mess, it is,” Andy commented lightly to a soldier standing next to him.  
The man nodded and grumbled,  
“We'll never stick to the schedule at this rate, and they were so irritated the last time we got behind. Even if our getting a pounding helped the rest.” 

“Let's hope we don't have to get hit too very hard today,” Andy said gently.  
“But it IS putting us behind, and we can't have that, now can we?”  
“Monty expects us to cover the ground to the north, and he expects it double quick.”

 

Besides the narrowness of the road, there was the problem of the bridge at Nijmegen.  
For it wasn't secured by any means.  
The paras who'd dropped had been overwhelmed by the German defenses.  
And the men who'd come up to help now, didn't have the equipment they needed to make it a go.  
It became almost like a second siege to the south, blocking the road to the north.

\----

Marigold and Abe were motoring north toward home.  
The roads had that golden glow of autumn in England.  
It was still warm enough to put down the windows, and bits of Marigold's hair blew around her face even though she'd tried to tuck it tidily under a scarf.  
“I hope they're alright today. Those boys. It's the second day and they really should be connected up by now.”  
She reached to put her hand over his on the gearshift, enjoying the feeling of being close.

Abe grinned back.  
“You said the man was an American, didn't you? And Pumpkin, one thing you can be sure of is that the Americans, especially the airborne, never say die.”  
He was so absolutely confident of his countrymen, Marigold could do nothing other than  
be confident, too.

\---

“Do you have any boats?” the American asked them.  
Andy, standing somewhat nearby almost laughed. 

Only an American would be standing in the middle of a field in Holland asking about boats.  
Then, again, only an Englishman would have been so Over-prepared as to have them.  
“Why, yes, I'm quite certain we do, though I believe they're somewhere back down the road a bit,”  
the officer answered. 

“Well, if we can't punch through the bridge by force, maybe we can float around and hit them from the other side,” the American said, scratching his chin.  
The two men nodded, considering, and for a brief time at least,  
international cooperation was achieved. 

 

The cooperation was short lived.

The Americans manned the British boats (canvas boats, not made for such a thing in any way)  
and made it across the river, so surprising the Germans by their guile that they cleared out the lot.  
And the tanks rolled over, in spite of a last attempt by the gerries to bomb the bridge, but then  
They Stopped.  
Which had the Americans quite cheesed.

 

“We've finally got tanks over the bridge, and they have us fighting to the rear?” Starkey grumbled.  
“You don't want to be cut off again as we were with nothing but German supplies to tide us through,” Andy reminded the man.  
Starkey nodded and grumbled some more, “rancid meat and jelly like glue. No wonder we're going to win it. They're fighting on determination now, certainly not on supplies.”  
“Wish they'd just see the truth and call and end to it,” Andy countered.  
He wished nothing more than a speedy Peace and an even speedier demobilization so that they could put things to right back home.

\---

“Hopefully the war will be over by Christmas,” Marigold told her mother, briefly kissing Edith on the cheek as they came in the door.  
“And if not, then the spring. The Germans are on the run now, and I can't tell you the specifics, but there's a new plan going around to shorten the thing if it works.”

She and Abe had spent a few nights at their new home, Marigold enjoying the feel of it around her, the light and the trees and the countryside.  
And now, like a regular countrywoman, she was 'visiting,' even if it was simply visiting family nearby.

“Darling, that's wonderful,” Edith said, practically glowing with happiness at her daughter being home again. “But let's not talk about the war now, shall we? Or any sort of unpleasantness at all.  
“Let's just concentrate on you two.”

\---

“They're trapped,” Andy said, going back to their position that night.  
“Aren't we all?” Starkey replied, callously.  
“No, the paras. They're almost out of supplies, and they're being pounded.  
And we aren't there.  
“The radio's finally fixed and the traffic on it would make a grown man wish to die.”

The Arnhem troops had withdrawn to a slightly different location to the west of where they'd been settled, hoping to still hold on and provide a foothold across the river when the southern men came. 

 

Andy remembered trying to form a foothold, a bridgehead.  
It was how he'd lost Teddy that time, after all.  
And he could sense the desperation behind the clipped words coming across from the men to the north. Could sense they knew it was almost all lost.  
(And still, like Teddy, they kept fighting on.)

“We need to get there and get them out,” Andy said, an edge coming to his voice, a bit of a quiver to his hands.  
  
“How? It's taken us all this time, and we'll never make it through that last mile. Miracle we've made it so far.”  
And Parker knew that what Starkey said was true.  
All they could do was try to hold the 'Island' between the two rivers. They'd never make it across that last bridge to Arnhem now.  
And they'd be lucky to get anyone over there out alive.

 

Consolidate, dig in, and accept that they were powerless over some things, while controlling what they could.  
Of course, it would be declared 'mainly a success,' although Andy saw it as nothing more than the absolute waste of lives.  
(Only 1,700 managed to get back south of Arnhem of the 10,000 they'd first sent in.)

A killing field.  
And the Rhine? Not crossed.  
And the control? Rather weak.  
Just another point on the map where Andy's men were once again locked in a stalemate.  
Still no closer to home.

\---

“Cheers, darling. I'm so terribly, terribly happy,” her father said to her.  
Bertie had tears in his eyes, and Marigold felt her heart go out to him,  
and she, too, was filled with happiness.  
She was finally home.


	102. Chapter 102

-  
-  
-  
When the second front opened, Phyllis heard people saying that maybe the war would be over, come autumn.  
Now it was late autumn and the same people were saying they hoped it would be over by Christmas...  
which made the housekeeper doubt her former hope that this would perhaps be true. 

The war had been slow to start, and now it seemed slower to finish. 

 

At least her husband was getting a break in things, what with the government declaring 'half lighting' legal instead of total black out.  
It didn't mean he wasn't still walking his paths as warden each night and in the darkness of early morning,  
but at least there were fewer disagreements with inadvertent bits of light, the streets were a tiny bit more cheerful with a soft glow escaping,  
and best of all  
Joseph could see where to place his feet along the path, now that he could carry a torch. 

 

Of course, he'd almost memorized the paths in all these years of plodding effort.  
(An effort to make up for a failing long ago.)  
“I wish they'd finally put an end to it,” he'd whinged lightly, soaking his tired feet in a pan of hot water.

Joseph Moseley felt every one of his years. Every ache reminding him he was old.

“We all do, dearest.” She'd wrapped a shawl around him, tucking it just so, enjoying how the man's face still lit up when she took the time to care.  
(Phyllis always cared.)

 

“I've never liked this war, y' know. I do see it necessary, now that we know how the Germans left the countries they'd taken over along the way.  
“But I don't believe in war, really, as a rule.”  
Phyllis nodded and tutted, bringing him a cuppa, fixed just so.

“I walked with you all those years ago, getting signatures on those petitions to try to keep Peace,” she reminded him.  
“Daisy, too. Nobody wanted the war, not truly. Not this one, right after the last.”

 

He'd looked down, into the cup of tea, sipped reflectively, then kept his eyes downcast.  
“The last one, though. Everyone jumped into that ready enough.”  
She murmured agreement, going to sit next to him and work on her Christmas knitting.  
(They'd best stop this war soon. She was almost out of the proper color of blue yarn!)

“The last one,” he faltered. “It's a weight on m'mind, you know, Phyllis.  
“I didn't do anything to help on that one.”

“Well, you've made it up surely, in all the miles you've marched on this one,” she said calmly smiling, before looking down again to her task.  
“No. I don't know that I have.”  
His serious tone came across to her then and she looked him directly in the eye.  
“Yes. You have. You've marched for hours, done without, helped rebuild when we had the bomb.  
You worked to raise money, all while keeping the school together with the younger men gone.

 

“Dearest, you've made up for it and more. Especially when you don't really Believe in fighting, even when it's to defend yourself.”  
She smiled gently then, knowing he was truly the type who would never willingly strike a blow.  
“I'd defend you,” he said. “If I could,” he added looking at his hands, doubting their ability.

He held the delicate china of the teacup carefully, noting how lovely it was.  
Joseph enjoyed the few beautiful things they'd managed to collect through the years,  
this being one.  
“And I, you,” she agreed, continuing to knit.  
He worried so much, her Joseph, not realizing that everyone was different, and not all men were made to be warriors on the front line. 

She loved him as he was.

\---

Beryl Patmore moved swiftly around the kitchen, making a poultice.  
The war might be fought on the battlefield, but the young men going put more weight on the shoulders of the older men left behind.  
And they'd best finish up before they killed Hers.  
Her Bertie was laid up with a congestion of the lungs, which had her worried. 

The Land Girls could keep things going. (Best thing Daisy's ever talked me into, Beryl thought.)  
And the children were helping.  
But Bertie still wanted to be up and about doing his share,  
even sick as he was. 

A cough made her turn.

 

“Get down with you, you old fool,” she admonished as he came through the door to the kitchen, making his way sneaking to the door to do a final check.  
“What?” he said, trying to look innocent.  
“Bed,” she pointed up to the room for emphasis.  
He gave her the ongoing Punchline in their favorite wireless comedy, “Don't mind if I do.”  
But he didn't move, just waggled his eyebrows and grinned, making her blush like some young maid.

“Bed. You're sick,” she insisted, taking him by the shoulders and turning him.  
Then with a gentle smack,  
“I'll be up in a minute,” she added, her tone conveying the meaning more than the words, with his hearing bad and his back turned, too.  
Beryl then returned to scurrying about, pulling things together as she heard him stopped by a wracking cough just before going back up. 

 

“God if you aren't too busy listening to politicians,” she muttered “Please keep that old fool upstairs safe for me.”  
What a dark, dreary time they were having as the year neared its end.  
“So many things scarce. Too much work. Whatever will we do even when they finally stop?  
Don't they remember how hard it is to start back up?”

Then hoping the Man Upstairs would attend to her worries, she went up to tend to Bertie,  
make him comfortable, show she loved him.  
For Beryl Patmore might have married late in life, but her love for her  
ancient husband was quite Young.

\---

“What was it the newspaper said about Pythons?” Daisy asked, ruffling through the papers on the side desk and giving every appearance of looking mad.  
“Pythons?” asked Sybil, wondering, nibbling a leftover bit off the chopping block as she stood by.  
“Like the snake?”  
(It was a feeble attempt at humor, but the young woman really didn't feel much like smiling these days--  
Daniel's letters, though they tried to be cheery, still sounded rather glum.)

“Like the plan, you daft child,” Daisy said, heedless that she was talking to Sybbie and not the twins.  
The cook emerged, triumphant holding a clipping.  
“The plan to bring the men who've served overseas so long back home.  
Sometime Andy had to have some sort luck in this war, and they're rumoring Python for his division, so maybe this is it.”

 

There was no official announcement yet, but the rumors were still there.  
Monty's men certainly qualified to be brought back off the front of the line.  
Though they had done well in the lowlands, and recently fought tooth & nail, the generals could see that the veterans who'd performed best on D-day were now being outdone by the UK trained troops.

It made sense, after all.  
The green men were now battle trained, and they weren't as exhausted as Andy's men were...had been for a long time, though they kept heroically going.  
“He'd still be in the army, though? Not demobilized?” Sybbie asked, not wanting to be ignorant but not remembering the mention of such a thing at all.

 

“No, not demobilized. After all, he's served less time than people like our Daniel.  
“It would just mean he'd serve out the time here in England, safe, and having leaves to visit home.”  
Daisy took a deep breath and looked at the girl.  
“Your man deserves to get out first, having been in line longest, but my Andy still needs a rest, given what he's been through.  
The horrible, ever so rotten nightmare he's been through.”

 

Sybil nodded and said nothing.  
Rather she came around to the older woman and put her arms around her, squeezing tight. 

And the two wives stood there a moment, both anxious and yet finally hoping there  
might be some sort of end in sight. 

\---

And Cora.

Cora Crawley, Lady Grantham, was snuggled firmly next to her husband.  
They'd had news of Georgie, moved from Rouen toward Antwerp, claiming good health,  
though he reported conditions in Europe were grim. 

 

Marigold, too, had sent cheerful news, both of her continuing work  
in the war effort and of her absolute need to be permanently sidelined from it.  
No reassignment from ATS to WAAFs for Marigold....  
Another grandchild was having a baby in about eight months time.

“That makes me feel so old,” Robert grumbled. “Our little Marigold having a baby.”  
“You? Never,” Cora smiled back at him, blue eyes wide.

“You'll always be the man I married,” she said then, kissing him,  
reached to turn out the light.


	103. Chapter 103

-  
-  
-

 

It was a cold, drippy grey sort of morning, where the fog creeps around the edges of things, trying to catch at your ankles as you walk.  
Jimmy Kent needed advice, and he thought perhaps Samuelson would have it, so he took the walk from big house  
to green house  
to lawn  
to seek the old man out.

Usually for advice, Jimmy still went to Thomas.  
(He went to Thomas too much, perhaps, though they were still 'best mates.')  
On this, however, on this he needed an outside eye.  
Samuelson? He might know if it could be done.

 

Now, Kent still worked for the man on his days off from York.  
(Still played a bit in the nursery, still came for cards.)  
And, of course, was followed by that fine fellow Frank, who even now was trying to clown his master out of a dark and gloomy mood.  
“It's all right, boy,” Jimmy said, tossing a stick and watching the dog lope away, only to lope back  
happy to return.  
“In the end it 'll have to be all right.”

 

Sam, however, was more interested in talking about what they'd do to make things ready for spring....months away though that was.  
The old man didn't notice that Jimmy was faltering, trying to hang back from going in, wanting to talk.  
In any event, Jimmy's talk was usually light and humorous, fitting any company.  
Sam saw no reason to dally about when there was work to do. 

 

And in the greenhouse, Teddy was working with the boys.  
(Clarey's a good inch taller than me, Jimmy noticed suddenly. And even Master Edward's only shy by a hair.)  
Surrounded, Jimmy gave over and played his usual role of court jester,  
entertaining them all with his wit.

A companionable gathering of males, young and old.  
But not what Jimmy needed to sort things  
and set his mind right.

\---

“I need to get drunk,” Jimmy told Joe a bit later  
“So drunk I can't stand.”  
The afternoon sun cast a glow over the woods—sky cleared, everything clean from the earlier mist, glistening now in the light.  
The keeper chuckled slightly. “What could possibly be wrong in your world, compared to the rest of the people in it?”

To him it was just typical of Jimmy Kent to display such histrionics.

 

The autumn leaves were beginning to fall—russet, tangerine, gold.  
And one landed on Kent, before he swatted it off, annoyed.  
Gold leaf on the golden boy, Joe thought; though he was certainly a boy no longer.  
In fact, the man looked rather tired around the eyes these days. 

Blowing out a breath in frustration, Jimmy lit up a cigarette, the movement calculated to delay answering.  
(Should he really? Why turn to the least likely person for Advice? But, then, it was really more PERMISSION than advice he needed, perhaps.)  
And Joe, a master of waiting people out for replies, stood there watching, trying to fathom what new sort of complication the man was about to bring into his life.

Meanwhile, behind them oblivious, Frank was gallivanting about chasing leaves, herding them into a stack.  
(If only everyone's life could be like a dog's, Joe thought.)

 

“I don't know what to do about something, and I don't really want to think about it any more tonight.  
“After all, as you said, there are plenty worse things in the world.”  
(The men considered this briefly--Daniel getting hurt, Andy out and fighting, even that Mr. Talbot dying.)  
“You'll tell me eventually, you know,” Joe sighed, wafting away a leaf coming for his nose.  
“Though I'd rather you talk to Daisy. Much rather.”

Jimmy shrugged.  
“Daisy'd bash me about the head for what I'm considering now.”  
“Ah!” At this, Joe became a tad bit more cheerful, since it at least promised entertainment.  
“Well in that case, either tell me or let me watch while you tell her,” he suggested. 

 

“Cranky old codger.” Jimmy tapped the ash off his cigarette and minded Frank.

“I need to get drunk,” he sighed finally.  
“What an irritating pillock you are, Jimmy Kent,” Joe said lightly, but he led the way inside. “Come on with you, then. We'll get a head start on the others if it'll help you spit it out.”  
And the keeper waved Kent through the door still trying not to laugh at the man, who took himself far too seriously sometimes. 

\---

“You did fucking what?” Joe spit out the words after almost spitting out a sip of his drink.  
Not that for Jimmy Anything was completely unexpected.

“She was there, and I was there, and I kissed her. Surely it doesn't come as a surprise that I haven't closed up shop completely in that department, even if I don't talk about it as much,” Jimmy smirked.

“But Ann? That's different than one of your York floozies.”  
(And I had wondered if there might not be a few gentlemen floozies added in as the years went by, Joe thought.)

 

“For God's sake, don't you think I know that? That's the problem.  
If I press forward, it's marriage for me, and I'm not sure I'm a marrying man.”  
(No, thought Joe, neither am I.)

 

“So what led you to doing it in the first place you daft git?  
You knew you couldn't do that sort of thing around here without causing consequences.”  
Miller actually found himself curious for a change, knowing that over the years Jimmy'd become at least SLIGHTLY less impulsive.  
Slightly more calculating.  
(So how had the man calculated something like this to work?)

Jimmy finished his drink and tilted the bottle for a generous second helping.  
“I've been thinking for some time about it, really. That if I married someone like her, maybe you'd Let me come back?”

 

He took a sip and looked every which way but at Joe.  
(I'D let him come back? I ? Miller thought.)  
“If I married Ann, I could work with Sam as I did before. As I do every day off even now.  
“And I'd have a boy of my own, perhaps a cottage of my own.”

 

“But in the end, it would be only with your blessing that we'd ever be able to stay.  
Comfortably, that is.”  
“It's what's between you and me what could ruin things.”

Joe nodded, finally seeing the crux of it.  
He could understand the longing behind the words.  
Jimmy wanted a real Home.  
In the end, it truly only surprised Miller that it had taken him so long to realize that Downton was it.

 

Joe put his own feelings aside for the moment. (Could he really have this knob loitering about full time? Even nominally out of the race?)  
But he made a true effort and looked at Jimmy honestly, trying to do his best for the man,  
who if nothing else was his lover's closest mate.

“But Ann? I thought you might be buzzing around a different choice?”  
(The keeper grimaced slightly. It wouldn't make Thomas entirely comfortable, true, but then again he'd probably be surprised in either case.) 

 

Jimmy flushed, thinking he knew what Joe meant.  
His fists knotted automatically.  
“All these years and you're still not trusting me to do what's right about Him?”  
It was frustrating, truly it was.

Joe snorted, taking a sip.  
“Well, no, you tosser, I don't entirely, but I didn't mean Thomas.  
I meant Teddy.”  
“If I thought you were actively buzzing around Thomas, I'd swat you down, not serve you drinks.”  
And saying so, Miller poured a bit more into their cups. 

 

“Teddy's becoming rather nice to look on these days, even if he is an infant, and besides  
you've always acted like an infant, though you're almost an old man.  
“He's posh like those cinema heroes you seem to prefer...”  
Here Joe rambled off.

 

Jimmy's mouth popped open and for a few seconds no sound came out.  
“I need to get drunk,” he said finally, so confused he was only slightly offended at the implied reference to his advancing age.

“Yes, yes, you do need that,” Joe agreed, giving a smirk he'd picked up over the years 'somewhere.'  
“And just as a favor to all we hold dear, when you've absolutely worked out your answer, tell Thomas first. Then tell me.  
“He's going to be able to accept whatever you choose...eventually... but it still might knock him back in the first blush of finding out.”

Jimmy nodded and downed the alcohol, now with more discordant thoughts flying about in his head than there'd even been before.

\----

“This is a nice change of pace,” Sam chortled, gathering in his winnings.  
“You must not be dealing off the bottom of the deck tonight, Jimmy Kent.”

Teddy smiled slightly and lit up a cigarette, watching the man shuffle and deal the cards again.  
“Does he do that?” he managed to ask, flicking a glance down at his cards and keeping his expression blank.

“He's not a card cheat. You shouldn't say that, Sam,” Joe said, earning a raised eyebrow from Thomas for his quick defense of Jimmy.  
“Never has been,” Thomas agreed, nodding, looking over to Jimmy and knowing something was worrying the man.  
“But somehow the magic in his fingers just pulls good cards his way.”  
Barrow grinned at his mate, and looked down at his own hand. “One,” he added. 

 

Something was off kilter tonight. Something indefinable was in the air and the butler was picking up on it.  
Still, it wouldn't be anything bad, truly, not if everyone around the table was above the grass not under it.  
“Daniel said fighting in Italy is fierce,” he said, and they turned to the topic of war and strategies. 

Everyone was whispering about their hope that the war would end by Christmas.  
It was totally unlikely, these men knew.  
Still, they were more optimistic these days that Good Days were finally in sight.


	104. Chapter 104

-  
-  
-

It was cold and the edges of the road held a rim of late November snow and slush.  
The trees were bare, but the sky was blue and the sun was out.  
And, at any rate, whatever the weather, this was certainly  
enough. 

He walked down the path to Downton, having disembarked the train with no fanfare.  
Of course there wouldn't be.  
The war wasn't over. He wasn't even demobilized and would have to report back in a week.  
(But he had the week, and when he went back he'd be  
near enough to come visit again. )

 

Andy Parker was home, his battalion having qualified for Python.  
His eyes blurred slightly as he caught sight of the Abbey towers over the tree tops,  
That distinctive outline he'd had pressed into his dreams all these years. 

Andy'd come too late to see Daisy or the twins at Yew Tree, so he'd once again come  
back by way of the big house, just as he had before. 

The last time. (How well he could remember that sense of longing and dread.)

 

But this time he knew he wouldn't have to face the guns again.  
He had hope that there might eventually be peace.  
He had Teddy back, Johnny safe, his family whole and healthy.  
So many good things to counter the chittering pessimism Still in his mind.

Yes, so very many good things, Andy firmly told himself and smiled.

\---

“Well, that much is done,” Phyllis said, handing the box to the boy to take to the post office in town.  
“And I suppose you have MY Christmas already finished, Mrs. Moseley?” Barrow teased, having come to think of the woman as a sister well worthy of teasing. 

“You're not supposed to expect what I might give you,” Phyllis answered smartly, wondering If she could somehow surprise him,  
then realizing what he best liked was the tradition of the thing.  
(They'd had so few holiday traditions growing up.)

 

“Did you manage it?” Daisy asked, coming into the servants hall.  
“Yes, it's done and off. Meanwhile someone is acting like his namesake, overawed and anxious for Christmas.”

And Thomas began to flush lightly, knowing that they'd play this two against one.  
“Hmmm.....though I think Jimmy's going to win the Christmas race with his presents to young Tommy. I've never seen the like of it, that tiny little piano.  
And with the war going on.”

 

But then the bells began to ring, and Thomas and Phyllis scattered, leaving Daisy to go back to the heat of the kitchen.  
Where the last of the carefully hoarded ginger and cinnamon were making their presence known in delectable smells now.

\---

As he came up the drive, a dog came out to greet Parker.  
Greet or perhaps herd him.  
“You remember me, don't you, laddo? I'm Andy. It's fine that I'm here. I belong here.”

The dog looked at him and gave a short bark, blue eyes curious.  
“I'm Andy. And you're Frank. I remember you. Surely you'll remember me.”

(And if anyone sees me talking to the dog, they'll think I'm permanently round the bend, Andy thought.)

 

“Frank? Who've you got pinned this time?” a voice came round the corner.  
“I'm so very sorry.....”  
And the voice dwindled as Teddy came around after the dog.

“Good God,” he said, dropping the basket of flowers he'd been carrying up from the greenhouse.  
“Good God, Andy,” he gasped, and took a few running steps toward the other man, before catching himself. 

“Teddy,” Andy said, smiling widely.  
“Andy,” the lieutenant repeated back, grasping his hand to shake it  
most enthusiastically  
before giving over and pulling the man into a hug.

\---

“You'll never guess what a wonderful surprise I've got for you,” Teddy said, sticking his head around the corner.  
Having picked up the basket, the kitchen girls took a peek and made a guess.  
“Roses?” one said, smiling shyly. The young officer was quite a favorite downstairs.

“Well, that, too,” Teddy said, eyes staying on Daisy Parker.  
“I've a present from the war front that's come a long way.”

 

The cook's eyes came up, widening, expecting a parcel, yet hoping for something more.  
And seeing Andy there in the flesh made her go suddenly silent and numb.

“I'll just take the ladle then, Mrs. Parker,” the assistant said, coming behind her, knowing that without her breaking into the moment, things wouldn't be on time for luncheon upstairs.  
(And we must have things on time for the upstairs, romance or not.)

 

“Andy!” Daisy breathed out then and reached for him, heedless of luncheon, the chopping block or the onlookers.

And at that the entire smiling audience tried to turn round a bit, to give them privacy  
even as they stood there in the busy room.

“Who's come?” Thomas said, entering round the corner, and catching the end of the kiss, merely stood there next to Teddy. 

 

“Ah, love,” Barrow said, but without the bitterness he'd once held for it, now having had someone so long of his own.  
“Hear it's wonderful,” the Young man said, with a slight bit more irony and  
raising an eyebrow, before going on upstairs with his basket in tow.

\---

A sudden thought made Barrow step back a moment into the hall.  
He wouldn't break into the Parkers' reunion for a few moments anyway, and he knew one thing he Could do that would help. 

“Nathan, I need an errand run...I need you to go get the parcel back we just sent out the door with Jason. We don't need to send mail to the military. The military's just come to us.”

\---

She smells like vanilla and tea, Andy thought as he burrowed more thoroughly into his wife's neck in the boot room.  
(After their first few moments in the kitchen, Barrow shoveled them there,  
into some semblance of privacy, with a half humorous, half nostalgic “really, you two.” ) 

He was home, and he didn't have to go under the gun again.  
Safe in the boot room at Downton in his wife's arms.

Andy kept telling himself he'd made it to the race's finish line,  
though really he wouldn't believe it until the last order came, and he was fully  
demobilized and home. 

 

“And how are you doing, Mr. Parker,” his Daisy girl asked, almost chirpy.  
“Better now, sweet. Better now. And you?”  
And she kissed him most emphatically in reply.

\---

Yes, the entire downstairs sang with the holiday spirit.  
And soon enough, it filtered upstairs as Sybil visited the kitchen and Edward the greenhouse. 

Perhaps next year it will be George, Lady Mary thought, looking at the tree they'd soon  
decorate that night.  
Nineteen forty five might finally bring the peace they'd been waiting for  
at last.


	105. Chapter 105

1945

-  
-  
-  
A long distance away from Downton Abbey and far from any sense of celebration,  
Daniel Barrow was off of the front line resting.  
Or at least in a meeting of soldiers, which compared to battle was 'resting' enough.

“We're in the middle of things, and now we're here,” he muttered, questioning, before taking a sip of coffee and savoring the warmth.  
Gabrielson just rolled his eyes.  
“Simmer down, will you? At least it's pleasant in here compared to that mountain. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey back there.”

Barrow nodded agreement but still,  
“Just dreading what might be coming up that's worse.”

 

Chuckling slightly, Gabrielson took his own sip of coffee, slurping.  
“Ah, there's the Barrow spirit, always looking around the corner expecting a dark cloud,” he joked  
as Daniel gave him a Look.  
(Do I do that? Daniel thought. I didn't think I did that any longer, once I'd got from Manchester to Downton. When did I go back to expecting the monsters to pop out and strike?)

 

“And here's the latest order for our group of merry wandering minstrels,” the officer entered and said in his most ironic tone.  
The gathering of men quieted, though feet still shuffled and fingers clenched at cups and caps.  
They'd had so many odd changes in orders, this group. Even a few of the officers made a joke of it now.  
“This round, they have us loaned out to Greece temporarily, though we'll come back here when we've done.”

It was an unexpected posting and the men mumbled one to the other,  
wanting to hope for light duty, but knowing they'd not be pulled off the line for that.

“Greece? Why would we be needed there?” Daniel muttered to his mate.  
“Isn't it already 'done'?”

 

The lieutenant in charge called for order.  
“Yes, I know Greece was already liberated and we saw the parades in the news from the MoI.  
“But...well...they've decided to have a bit of a civil dust up, and the king needs us to make sure the right side comes out on top of it.  
“He wants the right man in there, after all, when it comes to managing things after the war.”

Gabrielson pulled out a cigarette, tapping it on his hand before lighting.  
“And I'm sure they'll tell us who exactly the right man is, and which Greeks we need to shoot.”  
His sarcasm was heavy and his voice was low.  
Barrow blinked, trying to process it. Weren't the Nazis gone? Were they rounding up collaborators?

“Duty calls, gentlemen,” the officer finished almost cheerfully. “Chop, chop.”

\---

Daniel Barrow didn't know much about international politics, but somehow this seemed far off the mark of what he'd been raised to think of as the British Way.  
After a relatively short bit of travel, they'd disembarked to find people shooting at one another, people who'd just weeks before had rallied with flags and flowers to hail the British as liberators. 

“This is mad” he yelled at Gabrielson as they jogged the distance from dock to headquarters, trying to keep from getting shot. 

A British tank was sitting in the middle of the street, turret rotating slowly.  
Flags—Greek, Soviet, and British, were together on the walkway in a puddle of what looked like dried blood.  
“What the hell is this about?” 

 

For they still hadn't given the men direction, and to Daniel's eyes it was still a puzzle what a troop of men who could be shooting at Germans were doing mucking about in local politics,  
even if the local politics involved guns.

\--- 

“Just because they look like civilians doesn't mean they aren't armed,” the officer in charge warned them. His eyes had little dark smudges under them, and he gave them a hard sort of stare as he got them ready to go out on patrol.  
“We had a demonstration just last month where we had to kill twenty eight of them, and wound a couple hundred. They're all influenced by the Huns against us.  
“Don't let down your guard.”

“I thought you said they were communists,” Daniel asked when the man seemed to be winding down. “Isn't that the very opposite of Nazis?”  
The officer's glare focused on him; put on the spot, the man gave a defensive snarl, “Does it matter? Both are against the crown.”  
“You men are Dismissed.”

 

And as they left, Gabe leaned into him, playing pop.  
“Danny, you really need to learn when to shut your gob and not delve so deep”

However, Barrow still shook his head.  
“But these are the men who helped us get the Nazis out. If they were our allies a month ago, how can we shoot them now?  
“What do we care if they vote out having a king? He's not ours. They aren't ours, aren't part of the empire.”

 

Gabe snorted.  
Daniel made politics sound pretty, when it wasn't.  
“To Churchill everything's ours at least to use a bit to further England's goals.  
"If he's vexed at communists, WE'RE vexed at communists, even if last week they were near and dear.”  
And the shooting started then, drawing a line under the matter once and for all. 

\---

Like a practiced mechanism, Barrow automatically ducked around the corner taking a few shots, followed by Gabe.  
Then on the next side, they reversed it with the other man going first. 

Men in ordinary civilian garb were shooting in their direction, though the shots were falling wide.  
Behind them, police in local uniform were running around the block, perhaps thinking to flank the partisans. (Perhaps simply running away.)

“I don't like that we're on the same side as those Security Battalion officers. The ones that used to be collaborators. In any other place, we'd be locking them up,” Daniel spat, clearing the dust from his mouth.  
Around him, bits of stonework shattered and he ducked.

 

Lunge around the corner, shoot, duck.  
Change positions.  
Lunge around the corner, shoot, duck.

 

A plate glass window went crashing next to them, and the woman inside started yelling in terror, scrambling to hide, giving one last panicked look to the men without.  
Gabe took the lead of it that time, as he fired a suppressing round into the roadway ahead.  
He, too, hated the idea of actually killing this 'enemy' since most of them were young people,  
idealist young people much like them. 

“We can't be faffing about if we want to get home,” he gritted out, continuing to fire.  
“The partisans should have put down their guns when the army ordered, instead of putting up a fuss about personal rights.”

\---

With this group of the partisans finally fleeing, the two soldiers jogged up to the Acropolis where they'd been told to sit.  
So many times in books, Daniel had heard of the place. He was awed to finally be there, be able to touch it himself.  
However, a spray of dust rose as bullets hit around Barrow, making him stop gawking and jump.

No wonder the snipers had a nest to dig into, though Daniel noted the return fire was mainly short of that nest, well short of the historic structure.  
Still it was shooting.  
And when one was shot at, one returned fire.

So they sniped down from the nest then,  
helping to pick out a few enemies and helping to halt a few who would be sent to the gulag (after a pro forma trial.)  
Barrow tried to quell his continuing feelings of disquiet.  
(They shoot. You shoot, he thought.)

 

Below them, however, an old man ran from his house as flames caught hold of it.  
On his head, as a shield against them, he'd taken from his wall a large picture of the British king, hoping it could be a pass against shooting or arrest. 

“What're we doing here?” Barrow asked again, as the old man/potential partisan fell,  
shot by someone further down the line.  
“These are just poor working people like us.”

 

“Shut up,” Gabrielson said firmly, although not unkindly. “Please don't make this any worse than it already is, Daniel.”  
“Just do what the nice man orders and eventually we'll make it home.”

And they silently stood there, looking out over the emptied terrain and watching for 'enemies,'  
but to Daniel Barrow it still didn't sit right.

\---

“What are they thinking?” Tom raged, flipping through the newspaper a week after.  
“They're thinking to restore the Greek king,” Lord Grantham said patiently.  
Tom hadn't been so wound up in a long time.  
(Why now? Robert thought. I assumed he was past all of This sort of thing.)

“It's the narrative of the empire, you'll see,” Tom said.  
“I've not argued against all of the fighting, seeing how some of it might have had to be done.  
But this is just Churchill over throwing the popular will of the Greek people.”

 

“They're communists,” Robert replied.  
Surely by now, with a business of his own, Branson wasn't still secretly fond of communists.  
“They're people,” Tom said sighing slightly.  
“Who've trusted British justice and have been let down.”  
And with that, he simply got up and left.

 

“Really, papa. Do you still have to argue with him? Do you even really disagree with him?”  
Mary rose and went after Tom, as usual.  
Knowing that with a nice long talk in one of the other rooms, he could be calmed enough to sit down to dinner that night.  
Wanting to calm him, but mainly wanting this entire thing to end. 


	106. Chapter 106

Actually 105 1/2

-  
-  
-  
20 January, 1945

 

Dearest Mama,

It took until now for our Christmas bundles to come through, though I know undoubtedly you organized them all in good time.  
Thank you ever so much for all that you sent, and so cleverly wrapped so as not to get damaged.

We've had a bit of trouble with ships and supplies which might account for the delay.  
The Generals were pushing through so speedily, that I think they got ahead of themselves for once.  
And when they didn't push completely through to the Ruhr this fall, we ended up with some shortages.

 

All is well now, of course.  
Still, I wanted to tell you this in case my letters were delayed going the opposite way,  
and you got them all at once.  
(I have not shirked writing, and have thought of you every day between managing those few lines.  
Have thought of you all fondly, and of home.)

 

We are still in the area of Antwerp, but will be pushing forward soon, I believe  
as the line has already somewhat moved on.  
The harbor's cleared, and the ships are coming in with supplies, tons at a time.  
(Which I prefer very much to casualties as one might expect.)

Next, though, is into Germany.  
And I will tell you again, you mustn't be upset if the mail is spotty for a while.  
Remember that the general hospitals stay far behind the line. 

 

Frankly, I'll miss Antwerp and Berchem, and not just because the heat of battle has passed.  
The Sisters at the school have been very kind while we've been at this last place.  
I told them my cousin and uncle are Catholic, so tell Sybbie she has some sisters over here lighting a candle for her and her young man.  
(Best not to tell Donk, of course.)

Love to you all, and many wishes for a speedy end to it.  
And then hopefully they'll let me finish out service at home,  
but that's for the future. 

 

Enough to believe the fighting might soon stop.  
Best to you always,

George

\---

 

George put down his pen and sighed.  
The Antwerp Campaign had not gone as smoothly as he'd led those back home to believe.  
About 13,000 officers and soldiers either were wounded; or dead; or missing, presumed dead.  
And many of those men came through to the hospitals. 

Sometimes George felt as though all the water in the world, wouldn't get the blood off of his hands.  
  
Now they were at the end of it, but the last fighting to take Germany promised to be especially fierce.  
So the doctor sighed again, rubbing his temples with his fingers to try to press the darker thoughts back.

How he wished the butchery would end.


	107. Chapter 107

-  
-  
-  
Meanwhile, as the battles raged on overseas, Downton spirits were lifting up.  
They saw the end in sight, rather than the bloody path left to trod. 

Lord & Lady Grantham went to luncheon with friends, discussing how things might work Post War.  
Mary ran the estate & Tom the shop, both setting plans for how to succeed when production was back to normal.  
Sybil had her WVS, toting MaryMargaret along, all quite cozy.

And the younger generation, really Young Adults now themselves, studied on.

\---

Violet and Johnny were in the Abbey's library, peacefully studying side by side at a table while  
Edward sat in a corner chair with an oversized book, occasionally studying the Older Two.  
It was February and the fire felt lovely, but he'd taken a seat away from things to let the Lovebirds bill and coo....  
if with these two you'd ever call it that.  
Edward sometimes wondered about it, really, the different examples he had of people pairing off within the walls of Downton itself.  
(How confusing Love is, Edward thought.)

 

John now walked fine on flat ground and would even be going home next week,  
but he was still unable to climb the stairs to where the tutor usually was found.  
“And do you think Mr. Blair can get you back situated to go to university by autumn?”  
The page on the calendar had barely been flipped, and already Violet was counting the months until she would lose Johnny.  
Even knowing it was Best, the girl hoped for a reprieve.  
“You mustn't push too hard, you know.” 

(This was where Edward found it so difficult not to speak. For someone who'd always prided herself on being forthright, Violet was being remarkably oblique.)

 

John nodded. “I could delay, but first started is first finished.”  
And the silence gathered around the two, looking down and memorizing as they'd once studied over the silhouettes of airplanes.

“And you?” he'd finally asked.  
“Me?” she said, confused.  
“Are you going on to university or are you staying here?”  
(Thank heavens, Edward thought. If it had been Clarey, of course, he'd've assumed she was going and sat down with her to make plans.  
Yet, this was John Bates, not Clarey, Edward quietly huffed.)

 

John was nervous even to ask, knowing that Violet really had no need of taking a degree.  
If she wanted to learn, she could easily do so in this grand library.  
The degree itself would be just so much paper to someone like her.  
“I'd thought of it, of course, but it didn't seem a likely course....  
before.”  
(Violet was staring at him, then, as though trying to memorize his face as her lesson.)

“And now?” he prompted.  
She frowned and faltered.  
“I hate to admit it, but for once I find myself without a plan.”

 

(Edward slammed the book shut in exasperation.)  
“Sorry,” the boy said. “I think I'll just go upstairs.”

\---

Thinking to distract himself, Edward climbed the stairs to the nursery.  
For a long time now, Jimmy Kent had been coming up for part of his days off—coming up, then helping Sam, then going off with the men for their dinner at Mr. Miller's.  
Young Talbot longed for the day when he'd be considered old enough to play in the games.  
(Though Clarey said his father didn't even always go when he could.)

It seemed exotic, though, that vestige of grown up life, kept hidden behind the keeper's door.  
Edward felt just on the cusp of such adult secrets.  
And he'd taken to watching the men of the house, hoping to learn more.

 

“What have you heard at the cinema?” Edward asked Jimmy softly, coming into the nursery.  
And the man willingly held center stage, telling the boy the news while still managing to entertain the mother and child with winks and nods.

Usually, Edward would have been enthralled by the tales, but today he was distracted.  
And soon enough decided he'd best go to the greenhouse and check on Clarey.

For the two of them had a bit of a disagreement,  
and though Clarey'd called things all clear, Talbot thought it best to go early and see if a further apology was needed to set it all to rights.  
(It will be fine, he soothed himself. It's Clarey. It'll always end up right.)

\---

“Isn't Sam here?” Edward asked, going into the humid, warm surroundings.  
It always smelled so good to him, all green and loamy and safe.

“Just us,” Clarey said, then rolling his eyes before budging over.  
“Come on, though. Where've you been?”  
(It truly was 'all clear,' he thought, relieved. Clarey is such a wonderful friend.)

“Your mother's going to be upset with us,” Edward said smiling brightly, thankful, looking around to see which plants needed watering.  
“John and Violet are still in with the books.”  
“Phht. Right, with the books.”  
And the boys both chuckled, brushing past any lingering awkwardness  
just like that. 

 

“Sam and I can do this, you know,” Teddy threw in then, coming up to stand beside them. “And Jimmy should be down soon.”  
The soldier liked the boys and enjoyed them being about, but he didn't want to stir up trouble with Anna Bates.  
Andy'd said Anna could be rather stern. 

“It's my job more than yours,” Edward countered without thinking of the rudeness,  
glad when the man merely gave a small grin back. 

Clarey chimed in as a matter of course.  
“He likes that there's history in the plants and the house. It's family, you know,”  
his intonation on the word 'family' underscored.

 

Teddy simply nodded, looking at the two of them seriously before turning aside to work.  
“I do know. I grew up in a Family home, too, just in London.”  
(And behind his back the boys exchanged a look. Here was a new detail about the Lieutenant to file away, though they'd known he had to come from somewhere upper class.)

“Do you think the same about your family history then?” Edward asked quietly, not looking at him directly, but wanting an answer. 

However, when the silence stretched a bit, the boy feared he'd made Teddy uncomfortable,  
having learned already that it was only when the soldier was comfortable that he talked.  
“Of course, maybe you like it here better. We're very glad you came.”  
(There, that was leading enough to get an answer and yet welcoming, since he didn't want to put the man off.)

 

Teddy kept working, but in his mind he was pushing through the clutter to consider the question.  
What did he think of his family? The entire lot of them, including generations past.

“No, it's not better, as far as being proud of it like you are. I loved my home, and enjoyed the history of it all.  
“It's just my father didn't much want me being around.”

Teddy looked up, eyes wide and honest, having temporarily lost his inner censor.  
It was the way he was with Andy out on the line,  
and Edward reminded him of his friend, both of them so kind hearted.

 

Edward nodded, looking the man square in the eyes unfazed by the honesty.  
After all, he could understand that; he'd felt much the same way himself over the years.  
“Well, I hope one day he does,” Edward said, softly, regretting he'd never know if Henry Talbot would have finally come to want him, once he'd become a man.  
Who knew? Maybe he'd've wanted him less.

“And until then, you can have a share in here, even if it is still MY job more than yours.”  
The last bit came out in the closest Edward could come to a joke on such  
a serious subject.  
“Yes, sir,” Teddy said, giving the sketch of a salute.  
“I'll defer to the home guard....sir.”

 

Studying the two of them, Clarey laughed.  
In a way it was like they'd gained a third friend, though Teddy was grown.  
(It wasn't just the decade or more between them in age, but also the war....making him both older and yet more vulnerable.)  
Then, again, Edward had always acted like a little old man in some ways, and Clarey'd managed to like him just fine. 

“You two are nutters,” Clarey muttered, as they continued to fiddle around with the green things.  
“Two? Three's more like,” Edward commented to his best mate, feeling safe in needling him back.  
And they continued peacefully occupied until the gong rang, well hidden from any cares and troubles in life.

(If only they were just a tiny bit older and could go play cards.)


	108. Chapter 108

(Note: Lift out if you've dissolved Joe.)

-  
-  
-

The men were round the table shoulder to shoulder, already deep in play.  
Barrow was fleecing the lot of them, which had Joe amused and Jimmy finally concentrating.  
(Shite, Thomas thought. Put a glittering youth next to him, and  
Jimmy fell apart.)

Not that Thomas was Entirely happy with this.  
He remembered when he'd been the handsome man for whom Jimmy'd NOT had an interest.  
(I remember being that young once, too, he thought, quite staring Teddy down.)

 

Perhaps he was just imagining things, though.  
Jimmy'd been flirting with Ann openly enough that Barrow'd thought that was the way the story would end,  
with Jimmy coddled and comfortable. At home.  
“One,” he said, smirking at Jimmy's scowl.

 

“Things certainly seem to be going your way tonight,” Joe joked with him.  
“Two,” Miller added to Jimmy.  
“Mainly,” Thomas replied.  
For nothing in the world would he ever let Joe know that he was a bit put off by his mate's behavior around another man. (Or woman, for that matter, the ambivalence still quite real.)  
Joe would be jealous and Thomas'd not hurt him for the world.

 

“Two,” Teddy said, face placid as he looked over at Thomas and smiled.  
Young and with such a cheeky look.  
Barrow could almost smack the boy upside the head for being so...so....  
“Have more to drink?” Joe leaned over and poured a second round to them all, still looking rather amused.

Miller raised an eyebrow at Barrow.  
Ah, amused and Knowing.  
And he felt himself flush, caught out. 

 

At least he thinks I'm just sizing up Teddy, he thought, scowling.  
Who wouldn't be staring and thinking of times past?  
Weren't we all young and beautiful once?

“One,” Sam said, smirking.  
(Well, perhaps not Samuelson, Thomas thought sardonically.)  
“Three for me,” Jimmy said, a hint of frustration in his tone. 

 

Barrow wanted to shake him and tell him it was fine with him.  
Jimmy needed to settle in eventually and have someone of his own to count on, come what may.  
(Yet, of course, he still did have Thomas come what may.....  
just not completely, not thoroughly now, not in the way on which you built a life.)

 

“I fold,” Jimmy said, glaring at the cards and throwing them all down, then transferring the irritation to the men.  
“Don't get in a knot about it,” Samuelson counselled, and the rest nodded.  
“You don't need to worry about our Jimmy,” Joe said calmly. “He'll always come out right.”

\---

“God to be that age again,” Jimmy groaned slightly as Teddy's voice could be heard behind them in the front room.  
While the soldier still showed signs of mental strain, he had physically recuperated to an extent that left Kent ground in the dust.  
Wounded his pride, it did, at the same time it lured him on to consider once again the thing he'd only considered once before.

 

“Thought you were perpetually that age,” Thomas said soothingly.  
They stood side by side, leaning back against the kitchen's counter, taking a few moments break.  
In his eyes Jimmy was still the same young man who'd so bewitched him he'd completely lost his mind.  
And somehow, now that he was definitely settled with Joe, it didn't seem too very wrong to admit it. 

Admit that Jimmy was still attractive, even if they'd've never made a match.  
Jimmy smiled at him.  
And Thomas saw that same dazzling smile as always.

 

“Phht. Makes me feel like a codger, watching him.”  
Jimmy looked down and fiddled with the bottle he held, suddenly vulnerable.

The room was half lit and they were shoulder to shoulder, filling it.  
“Hurry up you two,” Teddy called from the front room, boisterous for once what with inebriation.  
“You two old codgers,” Thomas joked under his breath, making Jimmy laugh.

 

“Oi, it isn't funny,” the shorter man grumbled, but then he laughed again,  
being too close to Thomas over the years to stand on Pride. 

“It is a bit,” Thomas said. “I was thinking the same thing earlier. Jealous of him....and you?”  
The last came as a question.  
But Jimmy froze immediately hearing it. 

“I'm not,” he protested. “I haven't.”  
“You haven't decided yet, then?” Thomas asked. Followed gently by,  
“You know you could if you wanted.”

 

God, that almost cost him his life to get out.  
It was awkward both loving Jimmy and not choosing him as a lover.  
Enjoying what was a very different course with Joe. (Would Jimmy have that, too, now?)  
Thomas took a heaving breath in and plunged on.

“You're still a handsome man, Jimmy, far handsomer than him, and you shouldn't need Me to tell you that.”  
The shorter man grinned at him, winked. (Held himself firmly in check.)  
“Ah, you're a tease, Thomas Barrow. A flirt, you are.”

 

And the men made to move forward again, starting back to the front room's light.  
Jimmy sighed. He really WAS attracted to Thomas, but then who wouldn't be?  
He was Thomas.  
For the longest time, Kent had considered him the exception that proved his rule,  
the rule about who he was as a man.

And, yet, here he was considering a second 'exception.'  
Did he really want to risk himself on something as serious as that?

Jimmy shook his head, not wanting to spend so much time Thinking.  
Just wanting to be drunk enough to make himself Feel.

 

“How'd you know I was considering anything beyond...what I usually consider?” he asked Barrow in an undertone.  
He had been sure Joe would keep his confidence, and yet....

“We're best mates, Jimmy, really,” and Thomas tutted, breathing the words low in his ear.  
“I know everything about you better than I know myself.”  
And both men blushed and said nothing more,  
just warm faced by the truth of it stated so outright like that.

 

“What are you two being so sludgy about? Even I wouldn't be so slow,”  
Sam interrupted, grumbling, waiting for the next deal to commence.  
Teddy chuckling.  
Joe smiling warmly.  
Bates half asleep over his tea.

Jimmy shook his head at them.  
“Doesn't anyone else even TRY to shuffle the cards when I'm away? 

"Really what a worthless lot the rest of you are."


	109. Chapter 109

-  
-  
-

 

“Careful,” Johnny told himself as his foot slid on a bit of ice.  
“Don't let all that practice be for nought.”

Young Bates was finding the path from home to Downton difficult after months spent confined to the big house halls.  
Difficult and cold.  
Still if it hadn't been for his parent's tension, Johnny would have enjoyed the crisp clean feel of the morning, the smells of spruce and damp earth and moss.  
Enjoyed being somewhat independent again, finally (almost) trusting his feet.

Last night had been his first night home, and this now his first walk back.  
It was real progress, even if it was all flat ground. And Johnny SHOULD have been able to revel in it truly.

 

Except there was the tension.

 

His mother's words hung there, little puffs of judgment iced over in front of her as she walked beside him, frankly lecturing.  
“I think you need to go off to university close by enough to visit home, but without Miss Violet traipsing along. That's what I think,” Anna said firmly as she walked along watching their feet.

“But the best university is down south where George went, where Edward will go,” Johnny countered. “And you know Clarey'll follow Edward, two pups on the lam.”  
His younger brother smacked his shoulder sharply. “Leave me out of this.”  
The unfortunate effect of which was to nearly bowl him over, and Johnny had to stop for a moment catching his balance, as everyone else fluttered about.

 

“I'm all right. No, you don't have to... I'm all right,” he said, trying to calm them down.  
Finally collected, the young man moved forward, with his mother clutching at his sleeve as though to never let go.  
(I've been overseas, and she still thinks of me as a baby, he almost groaned.)

Instead, he kept his face respectfully neutral.  
“Anyway, university,” Johnny continued.  
“I think we'll all end up down south, for I very much doubt that Lady Mary will let her youngest have anything less than the best.”  
“Hmpf. She's a mother and she might surprise you. Unless you've already made plans with The Girl to influence her on that.”

 

Now trailing behind them, Clarey snorted inelegantly.  
The tone of his mother's voice on those two words spoke volumes.  
“Violet hasn't done anything wrong,” Johnny said firmly.  
“And she did save 'The Boy's' life,” John Bates added along, voice carefully bland.

“It's not for the best. Not for the best for either of you,” Anna insisted, giving her husband a warning glance.

“But mum, wouldn't people have said that to you about dad?” Johnny asked, pointedly, pleased to hear the huff of Clarey's amusement behind him, urging him on.  
“She could have done much, much better,” his father agreed, taking his wife's other hand.  
“Romantic fool,” Anna murmured, but she reflexively smiled up at him, not able to respond in any way but love. (“Behave.”)

 

And thankfully by that time they'd come to the Abbey's door.

\---

Not for the best.  
Not for him.  
Johnny Bates pursed his lips, breathing deeply in and out before rising from his chair.  
He rummaged in his bag a bit before pulling out what he needed, then across to where Violet sat.

“Could we talk a bit?”  
His voice cracked as he said it, and she looked up, puzzled, immediately rising though.  
“Certainly.” Then looking around at where their brothers sat, trying hard to look like they weren't listening avidly,  
“Music room or north library?”

“Whichever,” he said. “Lead on.”

 

It was what she did best, after all—lead. He was always following Letty's lead on things,  
though he tweaked her down now and again.  
That was what made this time different though--her refusing to lead.  
Refusing to make any move at all really, after the grand gesture of hopping a train.  
(Perhaps she thought that leading enough, the hopeful voice inside him continued to insist.)

\---

She'd taken his arm as they walked, even knowing he didn't need it now.  
And she held him even after they'd made it to the other room  
standing looking at him eye to eye, steadying Herself.

(Clear eyes. What clear, clever eyes she has, Johnny Bates thought.)

 

“Here's your plan,” he said simply, pushing the envelope forward.  
A raised eyebrow was the reply, but she made to take it and nodded for them both to sit.  
“My plan? Shouldn't I be the one to make my plan?”  
Her voice was proud and ironic and bossy....all things Violet.  
(Though he noted an undercurrent of worry even so.)

“You haven't yet,” he pointed out. "Made a plan that is."  
And accepting this with a nod, she opened what he'd given her,  
handling it carefully, slowly, hesitating and looking at him again before the seal finally broke. 

 

“A valentine?” she said then, smiling almost in relief.  
“A valentine,” he said back, starting to explain.  
“I haven't asked you to marry me....yet. But I'm going to be absolutely brilliant at University.”  
He paused as she smiled a bit wider now at his attempted cheek.  
(“Of course,” she murmured.)  
“And at that point, maybe I'll have more to offer, something to make me a better choice to give you to decide.”

 

“So you won't ask me to marry you, but you'll ask me to LET you ask me then?”  
It was so convoluted, Violet started to laugh in spite of herself,  
in spite of not being the flippant, laughing type of girl, not ever at all. 

(The card was a picture of two people walking hand in hand down a lane, and contained the most God awful verse.  
Violet studied it carefully, deriding its complete lack of literary merit while finding herself feeling  
thrilled by the sentimental tripe.)

John sat there a moment, letting her catch her breath, smiling back and hoping he'd pulled a clever trick.....which wasn't truly a trick at all.  
“But I really shouldn't marry you,” she said, her tone weak and the gambit worn through to the point of being absolutely False.  
“I'm not asking you to,” he grinned and squeezed her hand.  
“Yet.  
"You see?"

 

Earnestly he continued,  
“I know you should have someone rich.  
I know you need someone better than me.  
I know it's absolutely not what's Best for, really, either of us at all, if you think on it logically.”  
He stopped and swallowed.  
“So I thought if I gave you the years while I'm at University to look around and see if you'd druther anyone else. Anyone richer or better....”

 

“And if you didn't, then I'm your man for the job.”  
Violet smiled slightly down at the Valentine, then up at Johnny who was grinning proudly for finding them a way out of the tangle without forcing her to actually tie any knots.  
It was a logical enough, carefully thought out to best suit Her.  
The type of offer he knew She might possibly accept.  
And yet, Violet felt suddenly and completely dissatisfied.  
Irritated even....with them both.

 

She laid a hand on his arm and simply said  
“No.”

Johnny froze, hoping he'd misheard.  
“No?” he asked.  
“No,” she repeated.  
She gave a slight shiver then, but raised her chin.  
Some times, thought Violet, some times you have to let feelings over ride thought. You need to jump on the train or take an illogical leap.

“It's foolish. We shouldn't. And our families are going to have such a horrible time of this,” she paused.  
“But I won't just be your Valentine...some promise of a promise which we can't even name.”  
She pursed her lips and Scowled.  
“Just ask me if you finally WANT to ask.”

 

And she stopped then, breathless at the challenge.  
“Golly,” he said swallowing repeatedly, slightly stunned at the turn of it.  
“Of course I want to, Letty. I've always wanted to. You just always.....I just......”  
And she started to cry.  
Violet, crying so hard that she couldn't stop.  
Worse than the oh-so-brief snivelly bit in hospital.....  
Coming apart in his arms, just letting herself be held.

“I hate feelings,” she finally said with a sniff, the storm somewhat abated.

 

And he laughed at that, enjoying the crack in the armor for the short time while it might last.  
“I don't,” he admitted.  
“So would you?” he said, digging out a handkerchief from his pocket.  
“Would you, even if you have to wait until I'm established somewhere? Even if I can't get you all the fripperies you like?”

She wiped her eyes and looked up at him, His Violet.  
“I should say 'maybe' to tease, but I don't know if I can be brave enough to say yes again.”  
And they sat there breathing in and out in the quiet, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house, the tapping on the window of a tree outside. 

 

“It's not for the Best, you know,” she said simply, some reason restored. “Not a good plan for either of us if you think on it logically.”  
“Phht, logic,” he said, stroking her cheek with a finger. “I realized this morning that I'm tired of trying to think what's best for now, when I know You're absolutely the best for me in the end. It'll just be getting there.”  
He kissed her lightly.  
“Isn't that what love is? Something fine and rather daring?”

And she kissed him back more firmly,  
continuing emphatically and breathlessly,  
saying “yes.”


	110. Chapter 110

-  
-  
-  
Yet, elsewhere the war continued on...and on....and on....

 

George Crawley had been dreaming of home again—  
of Mrs. Parker's breakfasts, of hiding in the butler's office, of warm fires and peaceful days.  
Every morning it was harder to leave the dream world and come back to the cold truth of war.  
The room he was in now even reminded the man somewhat of back there, though it had more occupants than Downton ever allotted, and a rag was stuffed in the corner of one large window, keeping out the freezing air.

George groaned slightly and stretched, rolling up and feeling far older than his twenty three years.  
They'd been lucky to find any sort of structure at all as they followed the army's advance into the Rhineland.  
The hospital had moved from the Sisters of Notre Dame's school into tents, mainly.  
Tents that now were stationed around the grounds of what must have once been a grand estate.

At least those of them in the mansion had access to central heat, though the young man's greatcoat had still stayed over him as an extra layer while he slept.  
So cold.

 

“I wonder how Downton is right now?” George muttered to himself, as he finally rose to his feet and looked out the window at the snow below.  
A half shattered greenhouse lay below him, and further along a large cedar of Lebanon.

George rubbed his face with both hands, trying not to wonder what had happened to any small boy who'd lived here before them.  
(Had he climbed and fallen out of the tree? Did he tease his siblings and love his mother?)

“Doctor Crawley, the nurse needs you,” a soft baritone called to him from the doorway, and George was on his way once more. 

 

The allies had enlarged and defended the Nijmegen bridgehead and began an assault southeast from there using the same Corps with whom Andy's exhausted battalion had been recently attached.  
By February the plan had been changed into an ambitious attempt to clear out all Germans between the Rhine and Maas, in spite of its heavily forested terrain.  
Forested and flooded, as Germans let loose dams and intentionally turned part of the area into mires to stop the advance.

 

George Crawley, however, had little use for the strategies, the names of the campaigns blurring into one.  
He just took the ebb and flow of casualties as they came, concentrating on each soldier in front of him rather than in which campaign the man had fought.  
“We've casualties from an armored division coming,” the nurse said to him as he entered the ward, causing a shiver to run down his spine. (Burns. Amputations. Shrapnel.)

“ I've got the set ups ready....”  
and George nodded automatically as the matron ran through the drill,  
trying to steel himself for what he knew they'd soon face.

\---

On the other front, Daniel's men were just generating casualties...in his opinion.  
Generating casualties of civilians who might be partisans, though no one could truly be sure until after the shot.  
“They're to stay in the houses. If they do that, no one's hit,” Gabe said to him, reasonably,  
though he, too, was having trouble with being a sniper, rather than just fighting back in a regular exchange of fire like most of the rest.

“We've got to get them under lock down before it can be sorted,” Gabrielson continued, talking himself into it as much as Daniel.  
“And in the meantime, we just shoot everyone?” Barrow replied with an edge of sarcasm.  
“No, you twat, we shoot anyone who looks like they're about to attack.”

 

But how did you judge that?  
Was it anyone out where they shouldn't be?  
Was it anyone coming toward you or beginning to raise their arms?

Barrow knew the British officers intended only the best, having come with ships full of supplies that needed to be unloaded, the distribution foiled by the disagreements between the partisan factions.  
Still, best intentions hadn't come with clear directions, and  
Barrow's basic concept of what was War and what wasn't made him balk at this.  
He'd seen civilian casualties before, surely,  
but a sniper he was not.

\---

The injured men who were incoming had been in a bitter slugging match, trying to force the enemy back a yard at a time.  
And George wished, not for the first time, that they were closer to the line so as to better tend to the wounds he saw.  
The trek from the battle was far from speedy, though it was as efficient as the army could make. 

The battalion aid station, a mile from the front adjusted splints, gave plasma and morphine; the clearing station, about ten miles from the front, grouped patients for ambulance transport back; field hospitals were next closest, for severe cases and emergency surgery (though they were sometimes bypassed); and finally the general hospitals, where George was set up, doing actual treatment that might take some time.

Far, far better results than in the Great War.  
Yet, it was still too long for many of the casualties, George had come to know.

 

“Burns,” Dr. Carroll commented as he passed the younger doctor. “Nothing worse in my mind than burns.”  
They did some grafting even here, though not as extensive of course as they'd developed back home.  
However, George had to agree, burns were the worst of it.  
It wasn't just a technical aspect either, though the rejection of grafts and infections were still a problem.  
It was also a visceral reaction Crawley had to, quite simply, the smell. 

The young doctor was used to the various odors of hospitals, and usually could ignore them.  
The ordinary smell of combat troops, blood and sweat somewhat mitigated by hasty clean ups along the way.  
The common one of casts finally sheared open from immobilized limbs (Slap a Thomas splint on, coat it with four inches of plaster of paris, let sit during transport, then finally open.)

Then there were burns,

 

“Let's go, quickly,” he began, shutting off his mind as he went into surgeon mode.  
Polite. Professional. A slight smile which no longer quite reached his eyes.  
“Don't worry, we'll be taking fine care of you today, private.  
“Let's get started shall we, nurse?”

The young soldier's half seared face floated before him like a reproach.  
And George tried to focus on improving the man's chances as best he could, while wondering if there wasn't a way to hide in the dream he'd been woke from this morning, rather than the nightmare that was this waking hell.

\---

“I just don't understand the purpose....sir,” Barrow'd finally gone and said it.  
Behind him, Gabrielson rolled his eyes and sighed.  
“I'd be happy to clear out an area where people are shooting back at me, but it's so unclear, this business of sniping. I'd just prefer...”

The officer had taken this long to react, mainly from surprise that such a complaint was being brought to Him.  
Certainly, grumbling amongst the troops was expected.  
And these men had been around a variety of commanders with a variety of styles which made them 'loose,'  
but did this young corporal (Soon to be private!) think that he could select his own duties?

'Prefer'?  
Really?  
“Barrow, perhaps the two of us need to have a chat,” the man said, gritting his teeth, voice deceptively calm.  
“The rest of you, dismissed.”

\---

Meanwhile George sat, picking at the food in front of him.  
Though he'd not had a bite all day, there was no way he could manage it now.  
Closing his eyes he tried to let his mind wander, tried to pretend he was in the dining room at Downton  
all beeswax and freesia, sunlight and warmth.  
There'd be two kinds of chicken for dinner, with a delicate sauce for each. What vintage of wine would Donk select with that?

A slight clatter next to him forced his eyes open.  
“Sorry,” the other doctor said. “Don't mind me.”  
And he, too, closed his eyes and seemed to pray  
as he ignored his food and simply sipped his tea.

Hoping for the war to end.


	111. Chapter 111

-  
-  
-  
(Note: If you hate this section, print it, crumple it, and bin it.  
I almost didn't post, but this IS what I'm thinking is going on, so....apologies to anyone who wants to chuck a shoe at the screen.  
You can lift this chapter out, easily enough.)

-  
-

“You seem remarkably calm,” Tom said to Mary as the door closed behind her daughter.  
“As long as Georgie's off to the war, every other worry pales,” she replied, turning her palms up in a shrug.  
“Papa, however, might have other ideas, so perhaps it's best we just tell him of her plans for higher education and leave it at that.”

 

It had taken Violet two weeks to inform Mary of her 'conquest.'  
And now it was two weeks more before she'd come in and suggested that she, too, should go to university.  
“I'm not exactly the type to host fetes and go to luncheons, mama,” the girl had said, quite reasonably.  
“And we'll both have to make successes of ourselves if we're to have enough to live the type of life we want.”

Mainly though, mainly the reason that had her mother's full understanding was the one Violet had mentioned as an afterthought.

 

“Violet said she knew she was 'doomed' to it at hospital. That if he ever did ask after that, she'd've had to say yes.  
“There was a moment she realized that if he died, she'd be wounded so deeply it would be like death itself.”  
Tom grinned, “these girls and their romantic novels.”  
But Mary didn't laugh.

She sat there sipping her tea silently, looking out where the sun was clearing the last of the snow in an early March melt.  
And not able to help herself, Mary thought back to when Tom was taken to hospital.  
When the bomb had hit them and he'd fought to save the children, only to fall himself.

Though the room was warm, she shivered slightly.

 

If Tom had died, she'd have died in part, herself, Mary suddenly realized.  
Not as surely as she had with Matthew. No, certainly not that. ( That had taken the life from her to such an extent that she couldn't even manage her son or the family. )  
If Tom had died, Mary would have carried on, step after step.  
But a good portion of her world would have crumbled.

 

Lady Mary looked over at him now, sitting as he always did, grinning slightly as he read the newspaper.  
Perhaps the time in the hospital had clarified things for her, too, and she hadn't realized it truly until now.

“Do you think it's sufficiently clear to take a walk?” she drawled, thinking to bundle up and be out in it.  
“Of course,” Tom said, smiling more widely. “It'd be freeing to be outdoors again, after being stuck so long as we were.”

\---

“May I be of assistance, Master Edward?”  
The butler moved quietly into the nursery, not expecting any of the older children about.  
He'd finished bringing tea downstairs and had been dismissed, which meant Miss Violet was about to reveal her latest plans to her mother.  
(When did children get so bold as to tell their parents what they were about, rather than the other way round?)  
Of course, Miss Violet was eighteen, and Master Edward fifteen—both more young adults than children.

Barrow sighed.

“I don't know if you can or not,” Edward said. “Be of assistance, that is.”  
He was in the floor building things with Tommy, heedless of wrinkles to his attire or knocks to his dignity.  
“Barrow!” the younger boy demanded gleefully. “Come here and play!”

 

Ann's son had none of the shyness of Edward Talbot, and little of the introspection of either he or Georgie earlier.  
He was just a romping, husky little lad who was sure of everyone's love.  
“Come and play with us, Barrow!”  
Edward smiled softly and distracted the boy with a question  
(“What do you think we should do next?”) not wanting the butler to feel put on the spot.

However, Barrow did what he knew both boys wanted,  
though he carried a tiny child's chair over before folding himself gingerly down.  
“What are we building then?”

\---

“Do you think we should build more houses in Pips Corners?” Tom asked. “You know, for after the war when the men come home and the families start.”  
He liked to think of all those soon-to-be burgeoning families, all of the happiness.  
There were plans afoot in England which might actually amount to some sort of social justice, some sort of programs for health and welfare to make sure everyone had what they ought.

“Perhaps,” Mary said. “Though we'll have to build Sybbie's house before we build any others, if you value your head.”  
She took his arm and they walked the path to the village.  
At least they could look over things there, check for what repairs were and weren't being made,  
now that the war might soon be letting go of its grip.

 

“I wish she could stay.”  
He hated to admit it, Branson did. Knew that his daughter deserved her own life, as surely as anyone else.  
Knew that he'd been fortunate she'd married a young man who would be satisfied with a place as close as Longfield.  
And yet....  
“I wish the two of them could stay in the big house as I did. Perhaps drive out to the farm to work.”

 

Mary laughed at him.  
“Now, Tom,” she said gently, patting his arm through the overcoat.  
She knew how he felt, and yet knew it wouldn't be Sybbie's first choice.  
“I'd get him the latest model of truck, as soon as they come off the line.”  
But his grin told her he was beginning to let go a bit of their darling Sybbie—letting go, and yet still loving on.

 

“We'll just have to keep ourselves busy and not think on it too much. Set ourselves all sorts of business goals and plans to repair cracks in the house or unclog the gutters.”  
She smiled then. Her father had been on about repairs that were needed after the earth shook from the bombing, and yet they'd been forced to do without.  
“Papa calls it his 'life's work' those gutters.”

And she was relieved when Branson picked up on the topic, outlining all that the two of them must do for the old pile as soon as things became available....  
as soon as the war ended...  
as soon as the boys came home again....  
after the war.

\---

“Master Edward, I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with discussing this matter with you.  
Perhaps your mother or uncle?”  
Tommy had gone on down the hall with Nanny, leaving them alone, and Edward had finally come out with the conundrum that had him seeking solace in the nursery. 

Barrow had gone a dull, deep red, and felt himself fidgeting.  
Years of practice in the servants blank were failing him. He never fidgeted,  
but today he was.

 

“But you'd know. They wouldn't,” Edward insisted.  
“Uncle Tom's never kissed a man, and mama has, but it wouldn't really count to ask her since it's from a woman's perspective.  
“I need one from someone like me. A man.”

 

“A boy,” Barrow managed to counter, although his voice was thin and his collar felt a bit tight.  
“Far too young...”

“Didn't you kiss anyone until you were actually an adult, then? Not when you were my age?”  
Edward looked sincerely worried.  
(Good heavens I must be a fiend on top of having sexual deviances, the boy thought.)

 

“I...I...Have you?” That seemed the more pertinent question, though Barrow really shouldn't've asked it.  
Yet it had leapt from his mouth before he considered the consequences of inviting such a confidence.  
Edward turned a bit paler, two light pink spots appearing on perfectly white skin.  
“Yes, but he didn't want to, so it's all of it my fault.”

Well, I do know how that feels, Barrow thought, mind instantly going back all those years.  
And I suppose I did know for sure at this age, perhaps a bit younger....which was why Jimmy's ambivalence always came as such a shock.

 

The silence had stretched too long, and Edward was looking down, knotting his hands in his lap.  
“You're ashamed of me, then.”  
“What?” Barrow said coming back from his memories with a thump.  
“No. Never. Certainly not for a kiss.”  
He paused. “But is that what's got you worried. That the person you kissed is angry?”

“No,” Edward smiled, a genuine one this time, quick and true.  
“No, he's not angry. I'm just confused about how you know whom to kiss and whom not to. And if it's really adequate kissing a woman, when I've really only wanted to kiss....boys. At least up until now.”  
“What's the difference Barrow, can you tell me that?”

 

At that the butler chuckled without meaning to.  
“You'll absolutely need to talk to your uncle on that, since I've never...”  
The smile wiped off his face instantaneously. (Shite! Bloody fucking hell, shite....always the quiet ones who surprise you, Thomas thought.)

“You've never kissed a girl?” Edward asked, studying him again.  
(It's not as though they've kept it a secret upstairs, then, Thomas thought.)  
“No,” he returned as evenly as he could.

“But, Master Edward, while I'll tell you absolutely and repeatedly that there's nothing wrong with you at all....I'm not the person you should ask about...particulars.”

 

Edward huffed lightly, amused at the older man's choice of words.  
“I've the books on the upper shelf in the library for schematics about the 'particulars' as you call them.  
“I just need to know about the feelings of it all. The feelings are rather hard to sort, you know.”

And the two of them nodded one to the other.  
Indeed, feelings were always at the root of the matter, and they were indeed very messy to sort. 

\---

It was the feelings that were the problem, Mary thought as they walked by the hospital.  
(Her mother would be inside at a board meeting—indefatigable that woman.  
Sybbie would be down a ways at WVS.  
But Mary shuddered slightly in spite of the normalcy of the moment. )

Still, she had always managed perfect control of her feelings,  
didn't betray her thoughts with the slightest glance.  
And managed, with even a hint of a smile,  
comments on  
pigs and motor cars  
as she and Tom continued to walk  
knowing that what she was thinking would never come out.


	112. Chapter 112

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-  
-  
“It's confusing, really. One moment to be here, and the next to be back in that hole of a prison,” Teddy admitted, not wanting to say anything, but--having broken an entire flat of pots--felt an explanation was almost a requirement.

“Can we do something? Get something?” Jimmy asked, looking concerned and completely off balance.  
“A chair,” Clarey said, having dragged a bench over with Edward's help.  
“Have a sit, won't you, Teddy?”  
And the Bates boy looked at the young man with his mother's calm blue eyes.  
“I'll go fetch you a cup of tea if you'd like?”

 

The lieutenant laughed then, ruefully, embarrassed by the attention.  
“I'm not as fragile as you all seem to think. It's just...sometimes it's like Time takes a hiccup and I'm gone for a bit.  
“But I'm perfectly fine when I'm back.”

“Of course you are,” Edward said firmly. “But still take a sit, while we clean up the shards.  
I'm the General here, remember?”  
The boy was calm and quiet, looking about for something to sweep the mess aside,  
making sure his guest was left feeling comfortably accepted rather than flailing in the spotlight.  
(How Edward hated to be in the spotlight himself.)

 

Jimmy ducked to look at the man once more, then, getting a nod from him, went to help the others clear the mess. 

Andy was back on Leave at Downton, and they'd get to see him later than night for cards,  
if everything went as planned.  
Jimmy went about, fiddling and fussing, speeding things up so there was no delay.

\---

 

“I'm not sure if I can loan you to Thomas,” Daisy said, dimpling, as she dropped her arms around her husband's waist  
and stood swaying as though to some unheard tune.  
She'd left the girls chopping and stewing in the kitchen, whilst she ducked into the boot room to give Andy a great many kisses as freely as she'd like.  
It was so comfortable having him out of harm's way, even if she didn't have him fully home. 

“I'll be with you far more than with Thomas,” Andy said, smiling down at her.  
His eyes were still tired looking, but at least he managed to smile. (Though how could he not? She was his Daisy Girl.)  
“We'll plan with Mason all the tasks for when the ground warms,” he added as she rolled her eyes.  
“I know. That's not with you, alone, but it is important, what with spring coming on.”

 

He kissed her then, in fact spent several minutes doing it thoroughly,  
until Daisy began to giggle a bit, even as grown a woman as she was.  
“Here, get along with you. You don't have to prove anything, really truly you don't.”  
And a few final kisses later, they broke apart, satisfied for now. 

“I suppose Thomas and the men can have you for a few hours. Just don't let them get you so squiffy that you come back singing.  
“It sets a bad example for the twins, it does.”

\---

“Jimmy!”  
The voice came in an exuberant yell, as the youngster launched himself running across the servant's yard.  
“Jimmy!” young Thomas cried happily again, coming toward him followed by a yipping dog and a smiling Ann.

“I'd best...” Jimmy hesitated.  
Teddy smiled. “I'll tell the others you've been pulled aside by a younger man.”  
And without hesitation, he moved away.

 

Tommy and Frank came gamboling up, excited and happy.  
Both of them looking at Jimmy with adoring blue eyes, almost a match.  
The man could do nothing less than smile back.  
Swinging the boy up, high into the air like an airplane.  
“Tommy,” he crowed back, in the same tone the boy had just used himself.

And Ann watched from the side of things, smiling, glad that Jimmy Kent loved her child so much,  
so truly very much.

\---

Joe just shook his head and raised a shoulder in a half hearted shrug when Thomas finally made it down.  
He and Teddy had talked a few moments privately, but it was more about war and the after effects,  
with Sam soon joining them, having heard about the accident earlier on.

But of Jimmy? The only mention Teddy made was that Kent had been delayed by young Thomas.  
And he and Samuelson both nodded, agreeing the child was a priority  
over something as simple as a game of cards. 

 

Andy came then, and the men sat eating and chatting and joking.  
Teddy was usually soothed enough by a card game to fit in well, but he was still feeling wounded pride from his earlier situation. 

Parker, however, solved that problem—the kind, gentle man becoming a veritable jokester telling tales.  
Of course some of the stories of North Africa weren't entirely funny,  
though they certainly Made Fun of the men who'd been in charge.  
The general (“He really reckons himself high.”)  
The campaign (“Like fleas on a hot griddle we were.”)  
Then  
George Crawley (“A crackin' good lad in a fight.”)

 

No mentions of bad dreams where they could still hear the groans of men dying.  
No mention of truly bad men like Ginger (whom even gentle Andy couldn't wish well.)

Just the light talk of two men who'd been through the war side by side.  
“Andy saved me, you know,” Teddy said taking a drink. “More than once, really, but that one time I'd've been a goner for sure.”  
And Parker grimaced slightly, tilting his drink back as a salute. “The same for you, lieutenant. The same for you.”

 

Soon enough, Jimmy came and the game started.  
They sat side by side, slightly more rambunctious than usual perhaps having started the bottle early.  
Joking and jibing with each other.  
Andy, still rubbish at cards, but such a favorite no one minded when he hesitated, almost studying the cards before making a move.  
Teddy, a bit of a card sharp even when not at the best of his game.

Joe and Thomas sitting, analyzing.  
Sam keeping reins on the 'youngsters' of various ages. 

And Jimmy, sitting calmly playing as though he hadn't a care in the world.


	113. Chapter 113

-  
-  
-  
(Note: Double the blanket warnings on war, though I'll not be as graphic as what's in the books or the films on Pathe, HOPING not to trigger anyone.  
And I definitely know this section of history back to front, yet it's still distressing.)

 

-  
-

 

They knew the fighting continued, knew bad things were happening even as the sun burned off the mist and laughter filled Downton's halls.  
But denial allowed them to continue on in spite of the knowledge.

It was denial that let Sybil go smiling pleasantly through her WVS duties, pushing down worries of what was happening to Daniel on the southern front.  
It was denial that allowed Lady Mary to keep back thoughts of her eldest son, reminding herself things were 'perfectly fine because he'd said so' at the hospitals behind the line.

The first reaction, the best protection, really, is to insulate oneself from grief and tragedy until the mind can process it.  
And if possible, avoid the problem completely, simply evidencing disbelief.  
What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over, after all. 

 

Out on the front, George Crawley insulated himself somewhat this way, though the everyday body count tore that insulation to tatters sometimes.  
“We must be getting the lot of them,” he'd console himself when the surgery seemed to be swamped, though he knew from the numbers other hospital units were equally deluged,  
seeing masses of young men torn from life. 

And the rumors they heard?  
“They've got Hitler dug into a bunker and are going to fight until next year or longer, foot by foot?”  
Surely not. If George hadn't allowed himself the hope of it 'being over by (last) Christmas,' he wouldn't succumb to rumors the opposite way.  
Denial.

 

The camps, though, those rumors were filtering through in ways that were becoming unavoidable, impossible to Completely deny.  
“Doctor, we've a man here who says he's a POW.”  
And George had gone in (Quickly, as always), trying his best to give treatment,  
or at least comfort, to what was more a skeleton than a man.  
“He's beyond us,” Hilary Carroll told him quietly. “Set a nurse the duty of staying with him, at least, though we've far too much to do.  
“Poor lad, he deserves that much at the end.”

George had heard of the dreadful conditions at the POW camps, of course.  
Barrow had written him of Andrew's friend who was staying at Downton.  
(Winslow, the lieutenant that Carroll had helped save back in Cairo, George reminded himself.)  
But he had somewhat discounted the report—though he absolutely believed every word Barrow said would be true.  
However, what the eye hadn't seen could be made less frightening by a brain that selectively processed the details.

 

And now, Crawley was beginning to hear rumors that their army hospital was approaching a camp of some sort themselves.  
(We'll need to have extra supplies, if some of them are like that last man.  
Though probably the escape played a part in his emaciation, George thought... letting himself Deny.)

 

The roads were packed with refugees, people pushing prams and handcarts full of what possessions they'd been able to scavenge or couldn't bear to leave behind.  
(“Churchill,” they'd say and smile. “Doctor, Red Cross, help?” they'd plead to get some pittance of something the unit could spare before moving on.)  
The refugees made things almost impassible, as bad at times as the flooding and mud.  
And they told stories, sometimes, these ragged people, as they crept slowly by.

George, who'd had a decent education in languages, managed somewhat to get a word in here or there. French sometimes, even German occasionally. (Was it wrong to admit Nanny'd taught him some of that?)

 

“The camp we're coming on is for civilians,” George had reported back to the rest what the refugees said.  
“Like ours then?” Carroll had asked. (Britain had camps for enemy aliens, after all, camps which denied Freedom but were run in a perfectly orderly ordinary manner. An efficient, bureaucratic coating to keep the public satisfied.)

“They're probably hungry, though,” a nurse guessed, thinking of numbers and inventories.  
“More like starved,” George added. “The regular Germans are hungry. Those soldiers probably aren't sharing much but very thin gruel for the rest.”  
And they'd nodded, thinking they'd wrapped their minds around the issue adequately. 

They were a hospital. There would be patients, perhaps others with issues of poor nutrition.  
They'd help.  
However, it was another week on before Crawley found out for himself.

\---

 

“We need everything you can spare,” the lance corporal in the jeep stuttered.  
“There are people up there starving, and we need everything you can spare sent forward now, along with anyone who can help.”  
“Calmly, now,” George managed. “I need a little bit more than that.  
“We don't have orders to move the entire unit until next week. Is it doctors you need on the run? Nurses?  
How many wounded?”

And shockingly enough, the giant of a man had broken down then, hitching a sob along with the words.  
“You've never seen the like, lieutenant. My officers just told a few of us to get in the jeeps and come back to hurry the rest of you on to help.  
“Let the orders follow. They're dying up there by the thousands.”

And then, embarrassed at himself, dashing away a hint of tears from the corners of his eyes the man had driven on. 

–--

“Thousands?” Hilary had frankly scoffed at it.  
And yet, they'd had battles where thousands had died, surely enough.  
“Why aren't they evacuating them to us rather than sending someone back for us to come to them?”

“Don't know, but he did seem to have orders of some kind. Perhaps load a lorry up and have an advance party go take a look?”  
George chewed his lip, knowing it wasn't protocol for how the hospital was set up, but then they were supposed to be sworn healers, not military types standing on orders every time.

 

“Hmmm....” the older doctor raised his eyebrow.  
“You and your 'missions of mercy.' I suppose if they're sending out emergency messengers, though, it's only right we at least reply.”

Which was how the two doctors and three nurses were down the road to a place called Belsen.  
Such an innocuous sounding name for such an atrocious site.

\---

The smell had hit them first, and George—always tender about smells anyway—almost gagged with it.  
It wasn't just the smell of death. It was death and excrement and something undefinably earthy and feral mixed into one.  
The odor of it hit them a good half mile away from the camp. 

Besides the reports of POWs, George had already feared what was happening to Jews in Germany.  
He remembered what happened to Rose and Atticus, after all; how they'd been treated in even just those earlier days.  
And through the family, he'd heard of pleas coming from the Jewish community for help.

But this. This?  
Coming to the gates of the camp was like coming into something unimaginable.  
A step into hell.

 

As the wheels of the lorry squelched through a slurry of muck,  
George's mind clicked off and on as he tried to think of what to do first.  
Things were in such disorder, and yet they were NOT the first of the 'liberators' there at all. 

 

“Doctors, over here if you please,” a man in Canadian uniform waved them along.  
George tried to ignore the corpses strewn about like discarded dolls along the drive,  
focusing on the officer waving at them, focusing on what the man was saying,  
though the words spun and tilted until he couldn't make sense of them at all. 

\---

“We'll unload this batch and go back for more,” Hilary said to him before looking him more carefully in the face.  
“George?”  
The older man hesitated. “Doctor Crawley?” he repeated more emphatically.  
“Unload,” George said dully, then taking a breath to steady himself almost gave over, overcome by the miasma once more.

“We'll have to unload and go back to move in as speedily as order allows.  
“This is chaos.”  
Hilary was already putting his back into the task, and swallowing thickly, George followed suit.

The nurses had gone up to where some sort of line had been sorted.  
“Delousing,” said the Canadian. “We try to clean them up as much as possible then move them to a better location, a nearby Wehrmacht barracks.”  
He hesitated. “It's a human laundry really. Good of your girls to help for a while until we can get the supplies stowed. Every little bit helps.”

 

“How many?” George managed finally.  
“Sixty thousand perhaps, but so many corpses we've lost count. We're making the gerries help with the burial.”  
“They're here still?” George was outraged, and doctor or not he'd have taken all of their lives in an instant if he'd had a gun.

The Canadian huffed slightly, but any sort of laugh was devoid of humor. “They stood in their uniforms and waited for us. Not all of them, you know, but the ones left seemed to treat it almost as an inspection or reception.”  
“Now they're at work though. Let's see how they enjoy having their hands dirtied for once.”

 

“For once?” Carroll commented drily.  
“The filth of this entire place, the immorality of this entire place, stains their hands.”  
The men stopped speaking with that, however, too busy unloading to waste breath voicing their disgust, especially when such disgust was so overwhelming and absolute that there weren't enough words in the universe to give it voice.

 

\---

 

16 April, 1945

Mama,  
Our hospital will be relocating services again, and I needed to write to let you know that.  
I can't think of what to say, except we're being pulled forward to a place called Belsen.  
The entire hospital will move into position to try to help prisoners the Germans left behind. 

There were newsreel photographers filming, so I'm sure you will hear of this place.  
I couldn't put down on paper what I saw, nor what I felt.  
But whatever you hear, know that it is worse.  
Much worse. 

 

We've a cease fire and a safe zone around this camp, with the Germans having handed it over willingly.  
We will not be shot at, but the task ahead is so enormous that I will be  
out of contact for a while.  
I apologize for not writing more fully now, knowing that, but I am stunned by lack of sleep and the thought of the job ahead.

Just know that I am safe. I love you.  
And I hate this war and hope that it will soon be at an end.

George


	114. Chapter 114

-  
-  
-  
Downstairs was humming with it.  
Across the BBC that morning came a report repeated from Germany that Hitler was dead.  
Finally.  
Daisy hated to tempt fate, was still quite superstitious, but she couldn't help but smile and say 'good.'  
(As the other girls, scampering and giddy tilted the wireless over in a heap in their excitement.)

Good.  
I'm glad he'd dead, our gentle Daisy thought, with a surprisingly vengeful heart.  
No one cared if things went a bit behind schedule or smashed today.  
The first of May and they could finally expect to hear the last of the war soon, couldn't they?

Now, Daisy knew Sybil would have heard it down at the WVS, would be celebrating, too.  
Still, the older woman wiped her hands on her apron and went to find a boy to carry a message—just in case.

\---

Thomas had taken the stairs two at a time—something he rarely did any more, truth be told.  
He'd moved the news from the kitchens upstairs to Phyllis for the ladies, then quietly entered himself to where the old earl sat.  
Coming in, standing straight, he Waited.  
(For even though the youngest generation had pitched almost every convention on its ear, Lord Grantham had Not.)  
“Barrow?” the old man finally questioned, looking up from his book.  
“Your lordship, news came on the wireless that Herr Hitler is dead. They say in the Battle of Berlin, but there's some speculation it might be in that bunker of his somehow.”

Thomas kept his face neutral, but couldn't help a gleam in his eyes.  
A gleam that was soon matched by Robert's.  
“Well that's good then,” the old man said. “Very good.”  
The man, a natural optimist, had lost some of his twinkle this last year.  
“But then we knew we'd succeed in the end, did we not?” he said, beginning to get it back.

\---

Mary, though, sat holding George's letter, distinctly lacking either twinkle or fizz.  
The note had come earlier and she'd held it reading and re-reading, trying to decode the real meaning behind the words.  
(An enormous task? Worse?)  
Her brows were drawn together in worry, in spite of her usual ability to keep every expression placid and calm.

“There are reports he was killed in battle, but others say he killed himself....” Mrs. Moseley's voice trailed off as she noticed Lady Mary's expression.  
She questioned Anna with her eyes.  
“My lady?” the younger woman hesitated. “It's exciting news, is it not?”

And Mary looked up to find both women studying her.  
“Wonderful,” she said, smoothing down her face. “Thank you for telling us, Mrs. Moseley. I'm sure my mother was thrilled.”  
Nodding, Phyllis left the room, knowing something was amiss to have such an announcement fall so absolutely flat.

 

“News from Master George?” Anna questioned, finishing clearing away the change of clothing with the housekeeper now gone.  
“Yes. And he's perfectly fine,” Mary answered, picking the letter back up from where she'd had it on the dressing table.  
“Perfectly fine,” she repeated, sitting, an open invitation for Anna to return and perform additional adjustments to her hair.  
(Soothing, really, more like.)

She looked back at the woman through the mirror's reflection.  
“He has a difficult posting is all, something to clean up as the Germans finally start to give.  
I just thought that he'd be home the week after armistice, and I'm wondering now if it won't be longer than that.”

\---

Still, not everyone was given over to worries or realistic detail.  
The tutor had curtailed the boys' lessons, his wife so overcome with joyous tears that Mr. Blair had excused them and rapidly excused himself.  
Thus, Clarey and Edward were footloose and on the run.

“Mr. Samuelson won't know, nor Teddy,” Edward had suggested.  
And Clarey had taken up the challenge, wanting to be the FIRST to tell SOMEONE.  
“They're out in the grounds,” Clarey agreed knowing everyone's schedule as well as his own.  
(News spread so fast, and this was such good news.  
Besides a dash to the follies on a spring day would be great fun.)

 

“After you, Claude,” he said, just as at the start of the war...when they'd felt themselves children.  
“No, after you Cecil ,” Edward grinned at his best friend.  
And they both were down the path top speed, adolescent dignity be damned.

\---

And in yet another part of that May 1st swirl, exciting news of another sort was seeping out in Italy.  
Italy, to the south of Daniel Barrow's men.

Two German officers had arrived by plane at Caserta, the allied headquarters. Two German men in civilian clothes.  
They'd come on Saturday 28 April, and by 1 May the news was beginning to spread north that an agreement was coming soon.  
Of course, the OFFICIAL announcement took an extra day to reach them. 

Thus it was actually on 2 May, Daniel finally heard the Official news that all German troops in Italy, as well as some Austrian provinces were putting down their guns,  
over 230,000 men in one surrender.  
The first 'Great Surrender,' the southern 'forgotten armies' forgotten no more.

 

Daniel stood there with his mates in a village in the northern Forli area, stood there and let the celebrations begin to swirl.  
The town they were in, Bertinoro, was a small place, with the obligatory ancient castle...as well as a column called the Colonna delle Anelle, supposedly to show hospitality.  
And it did that day, to be sure.  
No politely worded exchange of news, keeping excitement corked. 

No, the soldiers' excitement, along with quite a few bottles of vino, was uncorked and flowing freely.  
The bivvies were decked with flags and the inebriated men outdid themselves in song.  
And while a total peace hadn't been declared, for at least one night the men of Daniel's (latest) division allowed themselves the full feeling of knowing they'd won.

(Sybil, he thought longingly & half tiddly. Sybil, I'll be back to you as soon as I can, even if I have to walk.)

\---

“Italy. They've just announced the Germans surrendering in Italy.”  
Sybil came downstairs to the kitchen, knowing that after sharing the news with her father, this was where she most wanted to be.  
With Daisy. How had the two of them grown so close that the girl felt the woman was more an older sister to her than a cook?

“Italy?” Andy's Wife stood still a moment as though letting the news sink in.  
“Italy? Oh, thank goodness. I'm so glad of it, Sybbie, truly I am.”  
The kitchen wireless set had Literally gone to dash with the news of Hitler. (And Barrow was currently putting it back together in his office, tutting all the while.)

“We need to tell our favorite butler that, now don't we?” the older woman suggested, as though proposing an especially wonderful lark.

\---

“And we'll need more bunting,” Mrs. Patmore said emphatically to Mrs. Hughes, though the short woman's arms already appeared full of the stuff.  
“Bunting and flags before the stores run out of stock.”

“They won't be coming home tonight,” Elsie said calmly, eyes laughing a bit at her friend.  
“Come have a sit and we'll hear if anyone more surrenders while we're having a cuppa.”  
And Beryl, putting down her pile of red, blue, and white, said, “Well, now that you suggest it, I don't mind if I do.”

\---

“I've made calls, and I can't seem to get information on this place, papa. I thought perhaps your friends, or your friends' sons, might have better luck.”  
Mary was certainly happy for Sybbie and her Daniel, but her mind was still on George's letter.  
The second day, and this Belsen was still just a mark on the map.  
(What did he mean by 'much worse'? How unlike her son to say something such as that.)

“You say that he claims to be fine, though,” Robert said calmly. “Isn't that enough? There are bound to be a lot of disheartening jobs clearing up after the Germans, as the Reich begins to fall apart.”  
The old man went forward to sit next to his daughter.  
Seeing she was still intent on worry, he even patted her hand.

“Darling girl, of course I'll make inquiries and try to find out about this place where Georgie is located. But you mustn't worry. No matter how bad things are that they find there, it will soon be sorted and set right.”  
And Robert Crawly sat there, confident. It was almost over, except for the tying of threads.  
What could there be of worry now? he thought, glad.


	115. Chapter 115

-  
-  
-  
"George will be fine," Tom said two days later, having come to sit with her on Matthew's Bench.  
(The two of them, shoulder to shoulder as always, allies in what had become their lives.)  
Seeing him, Mary attempted to pull herself more thoroughly together. She'd retreated here, after all, so as to not inflict her emotions on anyone else.  
She gave a last sort of watery sniff before meeting the man's eyes.

Tom's wonderfully steady eyes.  
"He'll be fine. I promise you, and I'm not usually one to paint things all bright and cheery, now am I?"  
And saying so, Branson took her hand and squeezed it, warming her cool fingers in his.  
Mary was usually the bravest one of them, in his opinion, but having a child in danger did tend to knock one flat.

 

"I just can't conceive how we didn't know such things were happening. Or just didn't listen well enough to the reports to understand."

And he hesitated, wanting to give a polemic on the cruelties of prejudice and mankind, but knowing it wasn't what she needed to hear.  
"We know now," Tom said simply.  
"And George will be fine, bless his good heart for helping.  
"When he comes back, he'll make sure others know, too, so that it won't happen again."

 

"But he's..." and Mary's eyes puddled again and words failed her.  
"I keep seeing him as my bright eyed little Georgie. It wasn't That many years ago, you understand."

"I do," he chuckled, discreetly handing her a handkerchief.  
"When I see Sybbie scurrying about on some mission of hers, and I think back to that knobby kneed girl she was."  
"Trust me, Mary. I remember."  
And Lady Mary tried to laugh then, but it still came out soggy.

 

"And trust me when I say  
he'll be fine, Mary, truly," Tom said, drawing her closer and putting an arm around her shoulders, just on the back of the bench more than anything else.  
"Your father said his orders were to help until things are under control, and then he'll move on. That's the official word."

"Those pictures, though," she said, pulling herself together again, trying to find comfort from his words.  
"I've never seen the like."

"And hopefully we won't see it again," he agreed,  
then sat with her quietly, letting the peace of that comfortable place do its job.

\---

The day had started out glumly with news from Germany, and Cora had compounded her sad mood by taking it upon herself to call Rose and check on the family there.

Lady Grantham rarely thought of herself as having Jewish connections, though her father had been. (It wasn't that she had any hesitation about who she was; she merely didn't think of that part of her background as anything other than....background.)

Yet, Cora knew the Aldridges would be hurting as this news came out.  
(Frankly, SHE was hurting as the news came out, distanced though she was.)

 

For some, it might bring a lessening of faith, but Cora believed in Lord Sinderby it would mean an increase.  
Which, of course, would affect Rose and the children, perhaps bring back to the table a discussion on converting.

Their Rose needed her support, Cora thought, whatever she might decide.  
Besides, they all needed to know that someone still remembered Atticus, and was grateful for his life and his sacrifice.  
Now over all.

So she'd spent a good hour on the telephone wire talking to Rose.

 

And Harold?  
Cora shook her head.  
Cora doubted Harold had thought of such news having anything to do with them.  
No, she'd spent her morning trying to console Rose (and herself.)  
But she wouldn't need to take her time calling Harold.

Now it was time to go about business, trying to set up how they'd handle the hospital after the war.  
Lady Grantham put on her hat and gloves, and prepared to go out.

\---  
\---

And as the days passed, nothing came to break into the air of worry and anticipation hanging over the house and village.  
Then, though, while waiting for news of victory,  
they got Victoria.

\---  
\---

Of course, Edith's family had to steal the thunder, thought Mary.  
The entire nation hanging on the wireless news, breathless for peace, and the Crawleys were being held rapt with news of...Victoria Leigh.  
Marigold had been delivered of a daughter, whom she'd named not after the old queen, but rather in honor of the victory she was sure would soon come.

 

“I like Marigold,” Mary drawled, rolling her eyes, “but Edith is making this seem like the Second Coming.”  
Tom chuckled next to her at the table, thankful that at least she was rebounding enough to show her usual sisterly spite.

They were letting Lord and Lady Grantham have their fill of chatting about the latest addition to the family line.  
“Well, she did at least marry money,” Tom said, fully joking, “which puts her ahead of ours in your father's books."

 

“Daddy,” Sybil scolded, hearing the end of the exchange.  
She tried to look fierce but ended up looking rather amused as he motioned 'pax, not in mine.'  
(She hadn't married well, and was quite proud of the matter, so there.  
Donk had more surprises in store for the future than her Daniel, Sybbie had already found out.)

On her other side, Edward was joining in, not exactly oblivious to his mother's boredom (He was never oblivious. Ever.)  
But rather, choosing to allow himself the independence of being frankly enthralled by the idea of another baby....just disappointed the tiny one wouldn't stay much in the Abbey's nursery for him to watch.

 

“MaryMargaret is quite the little babbler,” Edward said. “And yet I can't get her to correctly say my name.”  
“Don't ever say the word 'Donk' around her,” his grandfather said in a mock pleading voice, and both of them smiled one to the other in a bit of gentle humor.

“I've been trying to get her to call you that, already. You know that,” Edward replied, grinning as he took a bit of the next course onto his plate.

(Barrow, leaning to serve, smirked at the boy, who raised an eyebrow back without saying anything. For 'unca' was one of her twenty or so words, along with 'mumma' and 'da.')

 

"Either don't take it so seriously or give yourself an easier name to say," Sybil put in.  
The dear little thing was progressing quite rapidly, thank you, though something did have the young mother a bit concerned.

MaryMargaret was going through a shy phase.  
What would the baby do, after all, when her father came home?  
Toddle towards him or hide away?  
It was a worry many of the women in town would have to face as the men finally came back from war.

\---

Meanwhile, afterwards downstairs, the staff's conversation swung back to war.

"What're they waiting for?" Daisy grumbled later as they sat down to their meal.  
"I think we've been wondering that for a time now," Phyllis said, gently.

"But they've got to know they're beaten, half the troops surrendered and Hitler dead.  
Why would anyone fight on with all of that? Are they daft?"  
Daisy put down the dish and stood there, hand fisted on her hip.  
"Andy's away from the shooting, and Danny's in a section where they've laid the guns down. But someone's husband or son is still getting shot in those last little pockets."

 

It was a grim and blunt little thought, that, but Daisy'd spent so many days worried after the men getting shot that she didn't think anything wrong in saying it.

"Imagine that," Anna said sadly.  
"Imagine being the mother of the very Last boy shot in the war."  
"It's bound to be over in the next few days," Phyllis said kindly, as always.

"And we'll need to celebrate, not stay here with our faces so long they drag the ground," Thomas coached.  
"What do you think we should do here and in the village?"

And then in a great sacrifice to keep the planning going, Thomas added, "What're you thinking we do, Mr. Moseley?" knowing the older man would blither on a good few minutes, causing any moment of sadness to pass.

 


	116. Chapter 116

-  
-  
-  
The village had been sprouting flags & bunting since 4 May when the Germans surrendered Denmark.  
And yet, here they were still on the seventh, waiting with an almost unendurably tense air.  
For the British and Americans had agreed with Stalin to make the announcement jointly in all three capitals, and the Russians were 'delayed.'  


Meanwhile, people had their windows opened and wireless volume on high, just at they had in the beginning of things.  
In fact, it was very much like the beginning, when all was breathless anticipation and uncertainty.....tamped down by bureaucracy and wait.

Finally, though, the BBC was able to relay a German report of the peace, which raised a ragged cheer,  
and they waited now only for Churchill.  
Yet, from Churchill no word came.

\---

"At least business is brisk at the B&B," Mrs. Patmore reported to Mrs. Hughes, stopping past just for a bite and sip.  
"Annie had the girls make up little patriotic treats with the last of the sugar, and they're selling at a steady rate."  
The old woman grinned broadly. Her hair might be greying, but her head for business was still in the game.

"I've a bottle of good wine set by for the announcement," Elsie said.  
"Mr. Barrow replenished my cupboard earlier, stopping by as he does."  
Beryl nodded wisely, "That one turned out better than I'd thought.  
"Glad of it, too, I am."

 

Mrs. Hughes nodded back.  
"The youngsters do fine without us, but it's still nice when we get to have a bit of a chat with them. Just to give some advice and keep things on the right path."  
"And now, I know you have to get on, but I want you to take something with you...."

And the two friends went nattering into the back for a short while,  
still keeping an ear toward the wireless,  
listening for announcements that failed to come.

\----

"Will you miss it, do you think, after the war's over?" Sybil stood, giving a handful of paperwork over to Mrs. Lang.

"We've still men in the far east," Sarah Lang reminded her tartly.  
"The work's not over yet, no matter what these frivolous types say."

 

"But when it is? Will you go back to keeping house in London? That's where Barrow said you were."  
Sybbie smiled sweetly, honestly interested in the old woman, whom SHE at least thought not so very bad. 

"Thomas knew where I was? I very much doubt that," Lang said drily. 

"Of course, he did," Sybil insisted. "He said Anna told him 'Miss O'Brien was keeping house on Curzon Street.'  
He even checked to see that the house was standing recently--knew a butler in a house nearby."

 

"So will you? Leave I mean?" Sybbie added to the slightly flummoxed supervisor.  
The older woman grumbled slightly under her breath, and the girl caught something on the order of 'won't care.'  
"I've got so used to working here, I'll miss Everyone, you know.  
It will be wonderful, but also very strange leaving it for me," Sybil Barrow admitted.

"Perhaps," Sarah Lang finally agreed, with just the slightest edge of kindness.  
"But we've still work to do until then, so don't fold things up yet, young miss."

And with that the crone was off.

\---

"Miss O'Brien," Thomas tipped his hat to her on the walk outside, casually passing by for his Monthly Smirk.  
"Thomas," she said back.

\---

Barrow had been on errands throughout the village, and he was  
amazed to see all of the people milling about as though unable to work what with Expectation. 

The shops were open but he'd had to remind Bakewell twice of his corrections to yesterday's order.  
Such sloppiness should not be allowed, even when waiting for an announcement such as this.

 

"When the peace is announced, you might close up shop, but I'm surprised you already have done," Barrow said pointedly.  
"We're open," the other man stuttered.  
"And yet, I'm not getting what I need," the butler prodded him on.

Daisy was intent on cooking something special in celebration, and the list  
was more complicated than usual, which meant the original order yesterday was bollocksed up. Which led him for this second, smaller one.  
Barrow wasn't unhappy to be out and about, but he really Was put out by Bakewell's continued incompetence.  
And, thus, in punishment, Thomas gave the man his fiercest scowl.

\---

At 6pm, the big house was deflated with the BBC announcement that Churchill wouldn't speak that night.  
Even the dressing gong sounded dispirited.

And it was only at 7.40pm, in the midst of upstairs dinner, that Anna stole to the baize door, to pass along word to Barrow.  
"They've called it for tomorrow, finally. No word from the PM tonight, but he'll speak tomorrow at 3 o'clock they Think."

 

And the two smiled, one to the other. Finally, then, an official surrender.  
"I'll tell this lot upstairs. I'm sure downstairs is already fully informed?"

"Well if not, they will be by the time I go back down I'm sure."  
And Anna grinned in a way Barrow hadn't seen for a while, a reflection of the girl he'd first known at Downton.  
"There'll be a hot time of it in the village tomorrow night. I hope Mr. Moseley's prepared."  
And laughing, she moved on. 

 

Coming to the earl and waiting, Barrow finally had the old man's nod.  
"Lord Grantham, Anna has just informed me that Mr. Churchill will speak tomorrow, but that it's official.  
Tuesday, 8 May, is considered Victory in Europe Day."  
The butler said it quietly to the earl first, as was proper, but, of course, everyone at the table listened in on it, and the cheerful chatter started up at once. 

"Thank you, Barrow," the earl of Grantham smiled up at him.  
"Thank you so very much indeed."


	117. Chapter 117

(Note: Time jumps here to the end as listed at the tops.)  
-  
-  
-

 

Demobilization  
Corporal Andrew J. Parker  
September, 1945

 

On VE Day, the bells rang and people came out laughing as the May rain stopped and temperatures stayed warm. (For the first time in a long time they allowed the forecast to be printed in the newspaper, no enemy to make use of the information now.)

They'd burned Hitler in effigy later that evening--  
the shadows of the bonfire leaping weirdly across the faces of the village people,  
children running excited here and there, glad to see the adults happy after so long. 

And suddenly remembering, they'd ripped the black out material from the windows and stood amazed as the brilliance streamed past.  
Their little Downton appeared as bright & sparkling as London to them...on VE night.  
Yes, for that short space of time, the village was positively Giddy.

 

On VJ Day, however, the announcement came late enough at night that most people didn't even wait up for it.  
They went to sleep at war and woke up in peace.  
Thankful? Definitely. Celebratory? Not as thoroughly.

No one from Downton was in the Far East, although they'd been threatened that they might get sent before being demobilized, if the war dragged on.  
So it was good that it didn't, that the end was swift.  
(And yet the vicar refused to ring the bells given the way it concluded....by use of The Bomb. A deadly thing that had some of them already in a fright.)

 

By September, Downton was still thankful, but they'd learned not to be Giddy.  
The end wouldn't mean a quick demobilization.  
It wouldn't even mean an end of rationing.  
Looking around at the scarred landscape and damaged economy, people realized the darkness would be with them for years to come.  
So like a collective sigh, the autumn came, darkening even the sky.

 

Yet at least September, 1945 brought one bit of light to Downton, on very bright spot in the world.

Andy Parker was home at last.

\---

 

He'd finally managed a time when his first appearance home would be at YEW TREE, Andy thought with no small satisfaction.  
He'd been back in England for months now and had visited home, had telephoned home, knew who was where and what was what.  
Knew this was his Daisy's half day, and intended this last time to do things Right.

 

And he even looked the part of a returning swain.  
He'd had the choice of dark blue or brown pinstripe, single or double breasted, as his demob outfit,  
and Parker ran a nervous hand through his growing hair, feeling a bit of a rube.  
(They'd traded one uniform for another, really, with Everyone running round in brown/blue, single/double as their suit.)

Barrow would have managed to look debonair, but Andy felt as though he were wearing his father's clothes, playing at dress up somehow.  
And he hoped Daisy wouldn't laugh...even though he knew she wouldn't...yet, somehow he still worried she would.  
Nervous as the first time he'd asked her out.

 

"I know this place. This is home.  
This is home and I'm safe here," Andy repeated under his breath.  
Even having been in England now for a while, even having visited a few times home,  
he still felt out of time and out of place.  
"Home," he tried the word in his mouth, finding the taste pleasant.  
"Home," he said it again, feeling his heartbeat picking up.

 

Andy could see the sorry state of the farm as he walked up the path at Yew Tree.  
The evacuee boys, almost soldier age themselves, had gone back to the city last winter, what with the fear of bombings well past and their parents no longer worried about having to watch them as 'children' while factory work was done.

"We'll have to fix that barn roof again," Andy muttered to himself, remembering as though it was yesterday the frantic hammering he and Daniel had done before the war could start.

 

Inside he could hear his Daisy singing, lustily and well off key to the wireless.  
And he half snorted and smiled.  
(Alone then, for she'd never have done so even in front of himself.)  
Turning the door knob and trying to make his very tall presence very small, Andy walked softly in.

"Good day, Mrs. Parker," he said.  
And there was a startled shriek, then a clatter, then her arms  
as she realized what he had done.  
"You were to 've told me when," she said, while holding him. Pulling the scarf off of her head in embarrassment with one hand while still managing to kiss his cheek and ear.  
"I'm a mess," but she kept kissing and so did he, not much noticing clothing after that at all.

\---

 

"You've made it home, then, for good?" Mrs. Patmore said later.  
She and old Mason had taken the twins over to the village for provisions and now had returned.  
(Mason's kindly offer to go out and come again in a few hours, earning him a smack.)

"For good and for ever," Andy said, satisfied.  
"No more visiting a few days and leaving for months," he added, tickling Dolly who sat next to him, almost sealed to his arm.  
What a beautiful young woman she'd become, Andy thought, not for the first time.  
She'd sat matric early and was already scheming for a job.

"Granny says the tea room part of the B&B will be swamped, what with Downton growing. Mrs. Hughes said that she'd let me open up in her front room if I wanted, just to see if we could make a go.  
"I'd be like Annie, I would, and you know everyone listens to her."

 

Davey rolled his eyes, and Andy next studied the boy.  
He'd filled out, and would've worn a uniform if the thing hadn't ended this year.  
Thank God for that much of a favor, Parker thought, a shiver going down his spine.

"She should stay and help here," Davey explained to his father, feeling the look.

"She doesn't need to, now that I'm home," his dad answered back and smiled.  
"It'll be men only in the barn soon, right?."  
("The Land Girls were a good thing, though," Bertie Mason put in from across the room.  
"Those lasses could lift.")

 

"Speaking of chores, shouldn't you two go change out of those clothes and help doing some?" Daisy knew the children wanted nothing more than to sit all evening holding on to their father.  
Frankly, she wanted nothing more herself.  
But they'd have many an evening now to play catch up.  
This wasn't just a temporary leave, wasn't a holiday.  
They were back to real life, and real life had chores....whether one wanted to do them or not.

 

And yet. And yet.  
As the children trooped out to the barn after Mason, and Beryl made herself (loudly and obviously) absent to the front room to work on the mending,  
Andy once again joined Daisy in the kitchen. 

Watching her, and smiling.  
"Now stop that, you daft kipper. You'll have me burn the bread."  
"What?" he said, looking innocent.

"The staring," she said, pointedly, then blushed.  
"What staring?" he said, blushing a bit himself as he continued to stare some more.

 

And without quite meaning to, they were kissing again, slightly swaying to the music on the wireless.  
"For good," she said, satisfied.  
"For good and forever," he said reassuringly.  
And even over the odors of stew and bread, he could smell her scent, reminding him of tea and vanilla. And even scarred as he was, he could feel safe in the circle of her arms. 

And Daisy, his Daisy girl, felt  
as though her heart once ripped out,  
had been given back to her.

As they danced in the kitchen once more.


	118. Chapter 118

-  
-  
-  
Demobilization  
Private Daniel T. Barrow  
January, 1946

 

Daniel Barrow had fought his way out of the army with much the same tenacity he'd used fighting the Germans. 

"If it weren't the end of things, they'd've court martialed your arse," Gabrielson told the Private as they stood at a train station waiting to travel home.  
"Wouldn't've," Barrow objected. "They'd've been afraid what I'd say would be on the record,  
and that the record would make the mucks look less than right."

Daniel felt the anger swell in him once more and pushed it down.  
The young man knew he'd always had a bit of rage in him from how he'd been raised as a child,  
but he'd been surprised when it 'd come up again to bite him with disciplinarians like a few of his lesser officers.  
"At least it's finally over," he said, fiddling with the strap on his bag.  
"They won't have us fighting for politics any more."

 

Yes, the ending of the war had been disillusioning for Daniel even after they were no longer hot under the gun.  
For on the day after their drunken celebration, the men had packed up and headed through the mountain passes to Austria,  
to a lush green spot to the north of Klagenfurt called Eberstein.  
The meadows were in full bloom at the time, and a river ran peacefully through holding the reflection of the town's ancient schloss.  
(This is it, Daniel thought. This is our Eden ending. We'll all soon be sent back home.)

Yet this paradise was another haunting memory now for Daniel, another event that didn't square with his beliefs in the English Way.

 

A day or two after settling their billets, one of the signalers brought back to the town a funny looking officer with a peaked hat and unfamiliar uniform.  
"Cossacks," he'd called out to where Gabe and Danny were sitting on the verge.  
Then pointing back down the road where the dust was still rising, "Ukranians. They've been fighting against the Russians for their homelands, and now they've surrendered to us."

"Bloody hell," Gabe'd said as they got up and wandered down.  
"Look at all the horses. It's a proper cowboy round up round here."  
And they'd laughed in delight and went to check on the animals, nodding and smiling to their ragged owners, just farmers on the run.

Twenty or thirty thousand men with even more horses were waiting for the British to take their surrender, to save them from their worse foe--the Soviets.  
And though they were now with the officers Daniel actually respected highly (not like that arrogant twat in Greece), the story ended....politically.

 

"They killed those men, and you know it, sending them to Judenburg," Daniel continued, Now pacing the station, waiting for the train home, and still in a tear.  
He kicked a bit at a pillar with his heel, hoping to release some of the tension building.  
"The devil's always in the details, lad," Gabe responded sadly while lighting another cigarette, smoking them end to end with nervous hands.

"They called it 'repatriating,' sending them across that bridge, back to their homeland, but it was just sending them straight to the Russians to die."  
Daniel stalked the platform one last time before flopping down and accepting a cigarette, too.  
(The shots rang out across the bridge, their Russian 'allies' on the other side. No trials this soon, just  
The shots.  
Yet they couldn't confirm the Rumors, any more than they could confirm who was truly a partisan in Greece...and who was not.)

 

"You're going home, Danny boy, best to forget about all that. With hindsight they'll see things more clearly, but they did the best that they could back then. No one had a crystal ball."  
And Gabrielson nudged his shoulder against the younger man, nudging him out of his anger, reminding him that they were mates.  
"Just need some kip, we do. Proper knackered. Hope the train is empty enough for that."

"You'll be stretched cross some little lady with flowers on her hat," mumbled Daniel, trying for a joke.  
"Better a real woman, no matter how much her face looks like a hatchet," Gabrielson chuckled wickedly. "And my own missus'd better clear her calendar for at least a week once we get back."  
"And then a week more, 'fore she'll be walking, of course."

Danny smacked at him, coloring a bit, and Gabe smacked back, enjoying making the younger man blush. (Staying true to one woman? With all of the fraternization at their disposal these last months? Daniel Barrow was a mystery, he was.)

\---

On the train ride back Daniel slept little, just sat there smirking at his mate sonorously snoring in the corner.

This time, however, it wasn't thoughts of war or politics that kept him awake.  
This time he thought about how angry he was.  
(Gabe was right about that. Time to let it go, or at least box it back.  
Box it back where it couldn't sully the life he'd built at Downton.)

Fortunately, Daniel had always been a master dissembler, had to be with his grandfather's cane so often at the ready.  
And now he had an even better reason to behave than that.  
Sybil.  
The young man knew she didn't deserve his anger at the war, his feelings about the politicians. Sybil deserved only his very best. (Deserved more than that, really and truly. He was still humbled she'd chosen him.)

 

So as the train moved through the gathering dusk, Daniel plucked the lint off of his blue suit and adjusted his hat.  
He might not be what she deserved, but he'd do everything he could to not make her regret that choice.  
They were going home, and any blots on his copy book needed to be kept firmly to himself.

\---

After many delays, the train finally came to his stop in the village and Daniel pushed through the snow up the lane.  
Alone at last and walking the path to Home.

The moon hung full and low on the horizon, lighting the way, and it was almost as though he was walking up the avenue of moonlight itself.  
(Late, though.  
Very Late. No time to dally on about scenic wonders now.)  
Daniel knew he was running behind, and wondered briefly if they'd given up on him for the night.

And then, over the rise he saw the lights at Downton,  
and more than the magic of snow and moonlight, the  
feeling of 'home' swelled in his heart. 

 

Downton.  
More than where he'd managed to grown up, This Place had his heart.  
( It held his love, after all.)  
And for just a few moments there in the drive, where no one could see him, Daniel Barrow allowed himself a good cry, just in relief that he could ever manage to get back to somewhere  
clean and good and decent  
again.

\---  
Of course, his uncle was first at the door, expecting him, not making any comment at all about the hour.  
"Come in and warm up a bit," he commanded. " Mrs. Parker left food for you if you'd like."

"Sybil?"  
Daniel didn't dare say much more than that.  
"She's in the nursery, sound asleep the last that I checked," the older man smiled.  
"Your wife and your daughter both were looking for your return, but I'm afraid it's been too long of a day."

 

Daniel smiled back, grey eyes meeting grey eyes.  
"I think I'd like to go up, if you don't mind."  
And not waiting for an answer, not waiting for much of anything, the younger Barrow went dashing on up to where his beauty slept.

\---

Beauties.  
Both of them.  
Both mother and child were so beautiful that it took Daniel's breath.

He hadn't seen MaryMargaret yet, not ever, at least not outside of a well worn photograph his wife had sent.  
And Sybil was there, curled around the little girl in the cot, though surely there was a crib nearby that would have served.  
Whilst by them on the coverlet, a crumpled snapshot of him lay where they'd been obviously practicing his return.

It made Daniel smile to think of Sybil trying to teach the baby about him.  
Their baby, MaryMargaret....

 

Who woke up then and yawned, tiny fists rubbing at her eyes.  
Eyes that grew wide, seeing him.

At first, the baby looked surprised,  
but then she smiled.  
(She thinks I'm my uncle, Daniel thought, as the child chortled and reached out, yet he started a few feet forward. Waiting for what he believed would turn into a howl.)

Still, the little girl smiled and pounded her fists on the mattress in glee,  
then reached out to him again.

 

"What?" Sybil asked, waking.  
"What is it, love?" she said to the baby.

"Da." Mary chortled.  
"Mumma. Da."  
And Daniel froze as Sybil looked over, startled.  
"Oh," she gasped softly, starting to tear up.  
And gathering the small girl in her arms and rising, his wife came to him. 

"Yes, MaryMargaret, you smart girl. It's your daddy.  
It's your daddy, home  
at last."


	119. Chapter 119

-  
-  
-  
(Note: No-Joe folks, lift this out and replace with whomever your head canon has Thomas with now.  
And know that I had two different ways of playing this out.....almost didn't put anything in at all, but  
George needed some more time away before the final chapter, given what he's been through.)  
-  
-  
-

 

Demobilization  
Lieutenant George M. Crawley  
June, 1946

 

"What does he mean he's not coming home yet?"  
The letter Mary received from George that morning had them puzzled, and Tom not the least of all.  
"Isn't he even going to visit a week or two now that he's officially demobed?"

She sighed, looking down to read and re-read the lines.  
"George simply says he's going to billet in London and try to help with humanitarian efforts for the displaced."  
Her voice held a tell tale quiver and Mary clamped down on it, not wanting to appear overwrought on what was, after all, her Grown son's life.  
"He's safe. He's just working," she drawled in a better tone. (Proud of herself for managing that.)

 

"Of course he is, darling, and we can go up and visit him if you'd like. London may not be as we remember it, but it's certainly open to travelers now.  
We'll go for the Victory Celebrations on the eighth."  
Cora spoke placidly from the sofa, where she had set aside her papers while the letter from George was shared. 

Lady Grantham considered her grandson more than just the heir to the Crawley dynasty.  
He was also the heir apparent to HER hospital--which now was looking down the barrel of a new nationalized system's gun.

(Delaying, was he? Cora thought.  
Well, he needed to recognize that soon his own home would need help. Besides, she had a nice midwife to introduce to him, grand niece of a dear old friend...OR an Earl's youngest daughter if he preferred pretty but impractical....OR an entire list of others besides.....)

 

Tom Branson, meanwhile, looked Mary over carefully, her façade not fooling him.  
The younger 'children' had gone off to school in January for second half--Violet Talbot & John Bates to university;  
Edward Talbot & Clarey Bates prepping for early entrance tests (with Edward, though younger, the most advanced.)  
Only Sybbie and Daniel were left, and they were gone most days bright and early, too.

Why, the Abbey practically rattled, it was so empty and alone.

 

"Yes," Branson said briskly, swallowing back his astonishment and replacing it with action. "We should look over business in London.  
And if George has work, you ladies can fill the time buying some....hats."  
(Robert chuckled and Mary looked mildly amused.)  
" What?" Tom said, willingly playing the fool to see her smile. " Don't you need to wear especially fine hats for a victory parade?"

\---

"He's not coming back yet?" Daisy said, handing MaryMargaret over a batter spoon and hoping for the best.  
Young Tommy was more capable of handling such treats and sat down nearby, calmly licking away.

"Apparently not," Barrow replied, looking over his own letter, no more satisfactory than the one being read above.  
"He's busy doctoring still, down south."  
The butler's tone was a touch worried. (George had been stationed in Hamburg in the year since Belsen's burning, but Barrow had no doubt the nightmare effects still had him bound.)

"He's getting his feet back under him," Joe said calmly from the opposite counter where he was placing a box of game.  
Daisy nodded and smiled, moving around the children to pat the man on the arm.  
"Course he is," she agreed, looking over what he'd brought and nodding.  
"Course he is," she repeated, looking back at Thomas.  
"You can't keep a good lad like Master George down."

\---

"So will they take you with them? They will won't they?" Andy asked far later that evening at the keeper's cottage.  
He was studying on his cards like a schoolboy running calculus. And by the way he was chewing on his lip no one had much doubt in the poor quality of his hand.  
"Three," Parker muttered finally, still rubbish at cards.

"They might. They're going to stay with friends of theirs who've kept a London House. However, it's always a question of whether the offer of extra help is more worth than the rooms it takes to keep us. At least these days."  
"One," Barrow said smoothly then, raising an eyebrow and daring them to read his intentions now.

 

"I'll watch and tell you if not," Bates said, toddling by with his cup, smugly certain his presence was assured.  
"He's probably just still too stunned by it all to feel that lawn fetes are important."

They all nodded as one.

Another round, and then,  
"I think I've finally got the Lieutenant's 'tells' down," Barrow said in great satisfaction,  
taking the pot.

\---

"Master George'll be fine," Andy said, standing next to Thomas in the corner.  
The rest were playing on while the two of them stood nearer the open windows to cool down in the evening air.  
"Lady Grantham'll have an entire fleet of Ladies and Honourable Misses going after him as soon as he comes home.  
"The boy's just trying to avoid some of that."

 

Barrow huffed slightly in agreement.  
The push to get George to marry had started long ago, and now, with the war over, it'd pick up steam again.  
And as the two men stood there, side by side sharing house gossip, Barrow realized afresh how much he'd missed Andy while he'd been gone.  
The empty chair had mocked him constantly, and it was only all these months later that he FELT certain his friend wouldn't leave again.

(Andy stood there, smiling, eyes still kind and gentle in spite of all he'd been through, making Thomas glad.  
Certain he could trust Parker to answer what he needed to know, the older man cleared his throat.)

 

"And your friend, Teddy?" Thomas asked, trying to be casual.  
"Teddy?" Andy repeated. "He's not the marrying type. Surely Daisy told you that."  
Andy turned to him, eyes widening slightly. "Didn't she? Didn't you...know?"

"She did," Barrow smirked. "Heavens, Andy. As though it would make a difference to me."  
They stood quietly watching the others, taking a moment to breathe.  
"Though it does in a way," Thomas hesitated before adding,  
"Jimmy?" The two syllables were all he could make of the question.  
(A question to which he felt he already knew the answer, but still needed to confirm.)

 

"Well of course," Andy said, contentedly.  
"We couldn't leave him wandering about alone forever, now could we?"

At which comment, Thomas rolled his eyes.  
Andy Parker, the match maker. Andy, who'd long ago pushed Barrow himself into a match with Joe.  
No, he couldn't really hold such a thing against the man, after all.  
Parker just wanted his friends to have what he so thoroughly enjoyed--  
love.

"You sent him here for Jimmy?" he said, half question, half statement. 

 

"I sent him here, knowing he'd be safe and taken care of," Andy corrected. "Although I thought perhaps the other might eventually occur, too."  
The tall man gave his usual lopsided grin.  
"When he's at his best, Teddy's the champagne and glittery lights, can't stick his boots type of man."  
To which Thomas nodded, swallowing heavily, knowing it sounded very much like Jimmy Kent, too.

 

"Good God," Thomas said then, suddenly flashing onto the reason why the young man's face had looked so familiar when they'd first met.  
"Sir John. He was at one of those London parties back before the slump.  
"Is Teddy's 'secret' father a baronet?"

Andy chuckled.  
"Dunno exactly. He won't say the name, just goes by his mother's. And I don't WANT to know, Thomas."  
"He's Teddy. And in the end what's important is who he is for himself.  
And that Jimmy's finally decided--in his own way--to settle down."

\---

Finally, well past midnight after they'd seen the lot of them out, Thomas went about turning off lamps while Joe moved near him, emptying bowls.  
It was rather like some old married couple, Thomas thought, both pleased...and saddened for once.  
When had he become so safely predictable? He'd once bedded a Duke, after all.

"You're sad," Joe said, cutting to the heart of it, as they came together finally,  
washing the last of the dishes and setting things right.  
"Sad?" Thomas scoffed, denying he had any emotions. His face became a calm, blank mask....until he let it slide, knowing his feelings would be safely held.  
"A bit, perhaps," he admitted finally. "I was looking forward to Master George coming home, and today that plan went flat."

 

"Mmmm," Joe nodded, knowing it was more than that, though feeling he'd opened the door enough that Thomas could share if he wanted.  
Or not if he didn't.

"Push them to 'go with,' up to London, then. Lady Mary will allow it, if you present it as a finished plan."  
Joe chuckled. "The two of you are allies in Master George, after all. It's only right that his Barrow visits alongside his mum."

 

And then drying his hands, Miller put his arms around Thomas, kissing him.  
"Do you know how much I love you?" he breathed into his ear, nipping it lightly.  
"Soppy," Thomas protested, though he moved into the embrace rather than away from it.  
"Hmm, that's me," Joe agreed, pushing his advantage.  
"A soppy old fool who's in love with you."


	120. Chapter 120

-  
-  
-  
Demobilization  
Lieutenant George M. Crawley  
June, 1946  
Homecoming  
June, 1947

 

George Crawley smiled, just slightly, at the ticking of clocks in the butler's office.  
(Now I'm well and truly Home, he thought.)

Barrow was being fetched for him, but in the meantime the young man sat in the midst of the peaceful ticking, looking across the room at the detritus on the older man's desk.  
Thomas Barrow, such a fanatic for tidiness, could still never quite control the papers, and ledgers, and keys that collected.  
(The first thing he'll do when he thinks I'm not looking, is straighten the papers so the edges are at right angles, Georgie thought.  
As they should be. It gave one a sense of control over the world, it did, keeping one's professional life straight and true.)

 

He'd been out of sorts for well more than a year now, the doctor had. Since Belsen, he'd readily diagnose.  
Then the long, dreary months in Hamburg had done very little to help--though he'd started out  
looking at every German as a fiend, and come to realize a few of them were just small people caught up in the politicians' web.  
(So that's more progress than Parliament's made. Good job, me, George thought, fidgeting slightly in the wooden chair.)

The time between had at least given him structure, a structure he'd clung to for months after demobilization, realizing if he let go he might come a bit...unwound.

Combat fatigue could happen to anyone, and as a doctor George Crawley knew that.  
Short time, long time... it was the trauma and the reaction of the individual to it that mattered.  
Yet unless the symptoms impaired a soldier's work on the line, the protocol was to send the man back to his job. 

And so, George 'sent himself back.'  
Sent himself back to work.  
Then finding himself capable, FINALLY sent himself back to Downton.

\---

 

"Master George," Barrow gave the boy a wide smile.  
(He looked much better after a night's sleep, the old butler realized looking him over.)  
George was a man now, but sitting there in the chair, with his blue eyes wide and his hair mussed, Thomas could see the youngster hidden inside.  
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I came as soon as they told me you were here."

Georgie smiled back, a rare gladness that made it all the way to his eyes.  
"It's good to be here, Barrow. I might force you to rebuild my hiding spot, so that I can come in every day."  
And a chuckle, slightly rusty, but still quite serviceable emerged from him.

 

The butler nodded. "Perhaps just a more comfortable chair would do."  
(He was relieved to see the boy's shoulders relax--  
Thomas shouldn't go along with such a scheme, of course,  
but butlers grow to love their favorites, after all. )

"Surprised you didn't rebuild it for the little boy that's dashing about."  
And Georgie grinned a little more widely, having heard the boy called back to the kitchen with the name 'Tommy.'  
"He looks like me a bit, like he could use his own spot."

 

"You needed a quiet place. That lad needs a pen," Barrow smirked, though he truly enjoyed having the child around...in the servants hall.  
It was just that the lad'd been so used to roughhousing with Jimmy in the nursery, and now with the nursery closed and the Blairs retired to the village,  
they were making do.  
(Not that Barrow would ever say that to Ann, of course. Her son was enjoyed by all of them,  
played with by all of them at some point during the day.)

However, take George's place? Never.

 

"How's Sybbie?" Crawley asked then, breaking the moment of Comfortable silence.  
"Quite well, but you'll be able to judge that better than I ever could," Barrow replied.  
"She did well enough with MaryMargaret's birth, but being out at Longfield makes this time a bit different, you know.  
"I'm sure she's glad her favorite doctor's returned."

And the two of them shared a smile then, one to the other, and continued on talking about the village and the house...what had changed...what had not.  
"I must be going, Barrow," Georgie said after a while. "Best get me a chair there, though. I'll be back."

\----

Crawley wandered up and through the dining room as he made for the front door.

Last night's dinner with the family had been a quiet event-- having not had time for Sybbie and Daniel to come up, all of the sibs off at school.  
George was fine with that, though, his first night settling in.  
Quiet.  
He could realize why his mother had admitted it was 'TOO quiet' in the house these days, however, for he could see the difference himself.  
Even the slight scratch of silver on china seemed loud and out of place.

 

More than that,  
having been away, he could see the difference in his grandparents.  
When they'd visited him in London right after demob,  
it hadn't been as noticeable. (Was it they pretended better or had he really been so oblivious then?)

Grey hair. Slower movements.  
Yet Donk still had that tiny cupid's grin and a boundless well of optimism.  
And Granny was still chockablock with information on the village inhabitants' health and needs.

 

"I'm afraid we're scaring you off, Georgie darling. All these mentions of hospital and estate projects," his mother said as a lull once again fell in the conversation.

"No," said Georgie, taking a deep breath, then sighing slightly.  
"I'm just getting used to what it feels like to be back."  
And he was grateful to them, his family, for still wanting him,  
when at times he WASN'T quite certain he remained the perfect child and heir They deserved.

\---

Yet now the next morning he was more comfortably able to  
take in the sights of his family's home.  
Perhaps it was having his first real night's sleep without nightmares.  
Perhaps it was the talk with Barrow, and knowing there was some stability in the world.  
But whatever the reason,  
looking up and around this morning, George could admire his mother's skill at keeping things going through war and through peace.

Now it would be his turn to try.

 

Of course, having been to the butler's office, George's very next stop was to seek out Sybil.  
She was his 'mission' after all.  
(ANOTHER baby, George thought. My God, how ahead of me she's getting.)

Active and cheerful, she was running about her house like a madwoman, trying to get everything perfectly done before the baby came.  
(Which from the looks of things, wouldn't be long.)  
"You need to sit down, Syb," George said, blue eyes going round when he drove up and caught her half way up a ladder.  
"Won't Daniel do that?"

 

"Of course he will, but I want to do it NOW while I can."  
She chuckled and ruefully admitted, "And before Marigold visits next week."

Sybbie shook her head climbing down, and without warning gave him a breathtaking hug.  
"Besides, you know better than anyone, George Crawley, that I'm perfectly capable of doing anything that one of you Men can."

 

And Georgie laughed then, fully laughed, feeling her energy like an electric bolt from her to him.  
(Why, it almost hurt his chest.)  
"Are you going to beat me at maths or out bat me at cricket to prove it?" he said, quietly teasing, following her into the front room and admiring the layout as 'very efficient.'

"If you make me," Sybbie said, tossing her head and laughing back.  
"Though I suppose I'd rather you didn't," she added suddenly, as she grabbed for his hand and placed it square on her middle.  
"Little Whoops is already running around quite fast."

 

They had tea and caught up for almost two hours. (Talking, quite frankly, until the tea itself grew cold.)  
Sitting, two people who still could finish each other's sentences,  
worry and care about the same beloved people.

"I'd best get things started before Daniel's back," Sybbie said, suddenly looking up at the clock.  
And when George realized his cousin was actually intent on cooking luncheon, he almost laughed again before he could stop himself.  
A rusty reflex, and yet it was still there alive.  
(So good to be home and around people who were alive.)

"Yes, well..." he hesitated, hating to leave what felt like Real Life for a change, but knowing he must.  
"I'll be on my way back to the Abbey, then," George said, motioning out the window at the rapidly gathering clouds. "Don't want them to think I've got lost."

 

"Be careful, Georgie, do. And tell daddy we're all fine; you know how wrought up they get."  
Nodding, feeling a bit better for having shared some of his cousin's innate joy, George went out the door.

\---

And as he did, the young man spotted a woman on a bicycle, pedaling rapidly closer, obviously wanting to make Syb's house before the storm.  
Closer and closer, faster and faster, and Georgie almost wanted to urge her on, as she bravely raced the sky for the win.  
(The dark clouds so frequently win.)  
But then he startled and looked more closely.  
What? Who?  
"Liz?" he questioned, thinking his mind was, as Usual, just playing tricks.

However...  
"Liz!" he called and waved--just once, gulping then and bringing his arm back down to his side.  
Remembering how badly they'd left things off. He hitched a tiny breath...just another of his blunders.  
(And before, life used to be so perfectly lovely, he thought.)

 

But coming up in a rush, the bicycle skidded a bit and she came to a halt.  
"Why Doctor Crawley, you've FINALLY made it home then?"  
Liz Stanton said in her well known, carefree voice, eyes shining as she dared  
grab hold of his arm.  
(As free with him as Sybbie, and yet he wasn't put off by it.)

"But what are you..." his voice wandered.  
"Nursing?" he asked, taking in the uniform.

"Midwife," she corrected, with pride. "Your grandmother took me on at the hospital clinic, thank heavens. Suits me much better than the old men at the RAMC."

 

George swallowed, trying to think back. (THIS was the midwife granny had mentioned in her letter a Full Year ago? LIZ?)  
He still felt like his mind was straining to catch up in a race he wasn't aware he was in.

"I'm glad to see you," was all he could manage.

And she laughed up at him, all snap and sparkle, frankly amused.  
"Glad that you're glad," she said--cheeky as always--  
as the first rain drops began to dampen her curls.  
"But I'd best be checking on...." and she pointed to where Sybil Barrow stood watching and smiling at the window.

 

"Yes, and I'd..." and he nodded toward the car.  
And as they walked away one from the other, all Georgie could think was that  
his grandmother might have finally got one right.

And Georgie smiled widely  
before he ducked in,  
safe from the storm.


End file.
